\ : i 

r 

i » y. i 


t V.' 

% ,4 i 




inn 

fV‘ 

Cl» • 

i » / > « 

i -r ? . 


•M •* I 

v <5 • 


i-ji -f 

r ; ' 


h'rV 

r,r * 

. V. J 

i • * i 4 
i -* 4 i l 

. •, f 


V \€ . 

r. 


• < i *«r 

» *•mV m 


C*4 * 

♦ * # « 4 


s'Vi'V ; 


48 


i Vs \ 

I' • 'Jilt 


? ’ . • 

• #' * 


-• i <•»'i 

• •»•» -i • 

t .. » 


Y ' Y'-f 


/ i , « -*« <« x » 
k I 7 ' ' I i f 

v v < • » 

' • 


S Wff 

-• ■ u ■ B 

I 

Mill 

irlwi • 


% / « 4 t > • u 

v • f 


V ,r f\r 

\w-y. 


it f • • i i ■* H» * f i * v im I 

J > *WliiritPA •* ** « 

1 


t ■ • fc /4 • 4 
I * i, .* .« H if /tfli'S? ‘ ? 

• ' f i I 4 ( i • ♦ - < i 

• • . / i i t i .i • • m i t» ilt 


• • f ’ It! • -• • • * ■ 111 I 

i i % • « ’ L y • » : i! i .> at » ? * 

( 1 I I 1 *5 ’ 1 • « i • - I 

► a« » • 4 « • « t • ir 4’ fli . 1 « .1 

7 ■ ,1 • 4 . • ' • ' pi cx 

i'i » l*i t 14' »» 

• I * . 1 £ *; • J, i 1 ‘ 1 1 | - 

t '«# . « V/ x -*i ’ t r , f *' 

-« • ■ ‘ » • vV» • 


• .'n ,v < 

t' tu 

ri fi f 


1 

f 


» > I Ilk 


1st -.4 


.• .-V 


|i » l ,» • * • .t I • u I . ** fc • « . 

ij-ii # • t L" *' * \ 1 

* mi . r ■/ v r 1 ; | < “ » 1 4' • 

• 1 . t • 

• ( «7 . »* ■ ■ • • kii' -m 4 i 5 0 (1 

1 t \ • n ■’ f t t « * • »« 

« ‘tit N t*' Ik T J 

• « 4 1 • * I J I 

.t I .( . 1 • • y I 'll 

' -M J • ,1- h JV -j 1 


I I 11 

: -r 4 f 


1 I ■ .« ' it » 


* f 1 -1 * a • • ' >ii * ‘ ?i 1 - 1 

» : *» - t 11 .i < 

t it ' '4 ' * 1 « t * t V' 1 f ♦ I 

• U. • • 1 1 « 1 i • 


1 41 f ko '» 

► • ii ! f t>. •• t «» . 4 7 < • 

> 1 ire \ • . f • • 

’-<il j" '•*'»■> 4 • '•■x 

■1 i ( it iT ii 1 

x 1 4 ’5 •-« J 1 ’ 1 V * -t J 


• l • • 1 4 . I ‘ * \ '■ 

• • 7 r ■ 1 1 


. f 1 ( 1 •, 

• It H • .4 1 -X 


. 1 ' . . 


- .1 t 
4 '• I* I 

» • I 
11 *1 


i? It 

. > • 


1 * » !*•-**€ M 'i H 'H »? ' « « 

• .* 4 I * • » f 

it • . i -1 • i t 1 uK -1 Jr 

1 • 11 s t 1 h« <r* fv «•* 4 

* ' ■ . • i . ’ 1 . j* . 1 

(f -1 » « : T * !1 : a» i < 


1 1 • 1 • • » 

• • .1 1 ii 1 ■ _ 1 1 

O.l t’ ' 

« 5 

; f -if *- 

'I I t # <*4 • 

• 11 ax. 1 > • 

1 .1 -.t n v <1 


tL-*t -i • 

k 1 ji 


* !»* ; ' 












































^ * 





t\ N * ■ * 



^ i . A* </> 























Or' P p 












^ K 










'“o' 


A -T*. 










-> v ^ * 




























































































































































GOOD 

STORIES 

IN TWO ‘PARTS 

By 

RUDYARD KIPLING 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 
WASHINGTON IRVING 
THEOPHILE GAUTIER 
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
AND OTHERS 

New York 

Doubleday, Page & Company 
Publishers 




iwo Gonles deceive; 5 

oct n mu & 


i 


■«n»WJ»f *li\ ii.lkU'j( 

Oct 

\ )'./*»& (X XXCj 

jf i®FT da 

£~** 


i 






T^i 

,Gr k 


COPYRIGHT, 1904, 1908, BY 
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
PUBLISHED, OCTOBER, 1908 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 







INTRODUCTION 


Story-telling had become an art long before 
men knew what art was; for experience antedates 
art, and as soon as men and women began to 
see the world about them, to live with one 
another, to act, to feel, to imagine, and to 
suffer, they began to dramatise their relations 
with the world and with their fellows, and their 
thoughts, feelings, and imaginations as well. 
The man or woman who could describe an 
incident, work up a situation so as to secure a 
climax, bring out the contrasts of character 
where two or more persons have been concerned 
in any occurrence or transaction, has been 
surrounded by eager listeners from the beginnings 
of spoken language. The story is probably 
the oldest literary form. 

Epic poetry, which also dates back to the 
far beginnings of civilisation, owed its popular 
interest largely to the prominence of the story 
element in it. There are no greater stories than 
those which are told in the “Iliad” and 
“Odyssey,” the “Shah-Namah” or “Book of 
Kings,” the “Mahabharata,” the “ Ramayana,” 
the “Kalevala,” and the “Nibelungenlied.” 
The epic was a form of long story; the ballad, a 
form of short story. The chief and permanent 
interest of the theatre lies in the vividness and 


v 


Introduction 


power with which experience,actual or imaginary, 
is presented in the story form; for the greatest 
and most impressive plays are short stories 
dramatised and acted, instead of being told or 
written in narrative form. “King Lear," 
“Hamlet,” “Hernani," and “Tartuffe" are 
stories in every sense of the word quite as truly 
as “Vanity Fair," “Adam Bede,” “Pere Goriot” 
and “The Scarlet Letter." One of the deepest 
sources of the power exercised over the imagina¬ 
tions and lives of vast numbers of people by the 
sixty-six books which make up the Bible has 
been the rootage of this noble literature in life, 
its profound significance as a story of spiritual 
experience. And it may be noted, in passing, 
that it contains some of the most beautiful and 
striking short stories in the whole range of 
literature. The stories of the Patriarchs are 
notable, not only for narrative interest of an 
unusual kind, but for strong, distinct, and im¬ 
partial character drawing; while the tenderness 
and pastoral beauty of the idyl of Ruth have 
given it a place by itself in the literature of the 
world. 

It is clear that a form of writing of an origin 
so ancient and of an interest so universal must 
bear a very vital relation to the lives of men and 
possess a permanent importance as a disclosure 
of what is the soul of humanity and of what most 
deeply interests it. Before the art of writing 
was invented, there were story-tellers in the 
Eastern cities whose function it was to make 


vi 


Introduction 


men forget the heat of the summer nights, and 
to bring the imagination to the aid of those upon 
whom the realities of life pressed heavily; and 
to-day story-tellers are still weaving their 
spells in the bazaars of Damascus and the 
Hindu cities, and a vast literature in many 
languages has been produced in the West, to 
meet the same deep needs and to serve the same 
universal ends. For men do not live by bread 
alone; the mind needs play as truly as it needs 
work; the spirit must have its outing; the 
realities of life must be compassed about with 
spiritualities; and, out of the noise and heat of 
the great workshop in which men toil and 
endure, windows must be opened to let in the 
air and to make a vision of the landscape and of 
the far horizons possible. 

The story brings within every man’s reach 
the vast range of life from which circumstances 
have shut him off; it takes him to remote 
ages and to far countries; it shows him men like 
himself in all forms of action and adventure, in 
all possible combinations of circumstance; it 
sets before him the three great typical figures 
whose experience sums up the experience of the 
race: the adventurer, like Ulysses and D’Ar- 
tagnan; the man of achievement, like Henry 
V.; the sufferer, like Hamlet, Maggie Tulliver, 
P&re Goriot; the lover, like Romeo and John 
Ridd. 

This love of the story, often instructive rather 
than intelligent, has stimulated the publication 
vii 


Introduction 


of an immense mass of worthless fiction, some 
of which is demoralising, because it sets forth 
false standards of character and misstates the 
facts of experience, and most of which is 
vulgar in tone and lacking in integrity of work¬ 
manship. It lays the foundation, also, for the 
success of the sensational newspaper, which is 
sold in vast quantities, and the success of which 
is inexplicable to those who fail to see that its 
interest lies in the thoroughness with which 
the story element is wrought into its structure. 
No form of writing is so personal as that con¬ 
tained in what is known as the “yellow journal”; 
because in no other publication of kindred 
magnitude is the love of the story among un¬ 
educated men so definitely taken into account 
as a factor that may be turned to financial 
profit. The sensational newspaper is a mis¬ 
cellaneous collection of short stories, told in the 
boldest, most condensed, and vivid style; 
representing the crudest kind of art—the art of 
catching the attention abruptly and holding 
it for the briefest time. But the success of the 
sensational newspapers, however disastrous to 
journalism as a profession, and to the taste and 
intelligence of its readers, is based on a normal 
instinct in human nature, and is a striking 
evidence of the reality and power of the dramatic 
element in life. 

The story rarely offers any explanation of the 
events or incidents which it narrates; its function 
is to present a coherent narrative, to show 
viii 


Introduction 


relationship between character and happenings, 
not to suggest a philosophy of life. But, in 
simply indicating the effect of character on 
character, of the reaction of things done on 
those who do them, of the return of the deed 
on the doer, the story satisfies a great craving 
of the human spirit: the craving for order and 
significance in life. Nothing is more intolerable 
to the normal mind than the idea that life 
is a mere accidental series of happenings, that 
there is no connection between character and 
destiny, that a man’s life in this world is 
“sound and fury, signifying nothing.” The 
instinct which led the earliest men to dramatise 
Nature, and, in the great myths, to personify 
the forces of the world, was an expression of the 
craving to discover rational order, relationship 
with humanity, spiritual meaning, in the ex¬ 
ternal show of things. The story in the form 
of the myth preceded science as an explanation 
of the universe. 

A story involves a certain connection between 
a person and the circumstances that surround 
him; if these circumstances are more powerful 
than his will, and shape him to ends which are 
abhorrent to him, and so establish the idea of 
fatalism, nevertheless a logical order is disclosed, 
and the mind finds something to rest on in its 
endeavour to understand a group of events or a 
baffling situation. If men and women are 
carried to tragic fates by currents too powerful 
to be opposed, as they sometimes are in novels 


IX 


Introduction 


of a high order, their defeat is invested with a 
certain dignity that appeals to the imagination, 
and robs failure of ignobility. As any hardship 
in life is more tolerable than emptiness and 
inanity, so heroic defeat often yields more 
satisfaction to the imagination than well-won 
success, because it. brings into clear light the 
force in the man which makes him an original 
power in the world, not a mere apparition of 
authority. In any story, there is some kind 
of sequence or order of events,-, some working 
out of character modifying or creating events, 
some expression of personal power which affects 
others, some exhibition of groups of men and 
women in situations which have arisen because 
of influences set in motion by themselves or 
others. In short, the story, which always 
involves a beginning, an unfolding, and an 
ending, implies rational, intelligible, significant 
relations in the world and among men; and is 
the oldest and, for most men, the most significant 
and interesting literary form, because it ex¬ 
presses the need of the spirit to discover or read 
some kind of meaning into life, and the need to 
make life interesting. 

Art, which is always and everywhere the best 
way of doing a thing, has not been slow to 
discern the immense resources of the story and 
to develop them in a great variety of ways. 
There were artists among the earliest, as among 
the latest, story-tellers; men who saw at a glance 
what was important and what unimportant in 


x 


Introduction 


the material which came to their hand; who knew 
how, with a few strong or with many delicate 
lines, to draw a character and make it live; who 
understood how to set events in striking relation 
and give the narrative rapidity of movement, 
novelty of arrangement, dramatic moments, 
which the reader or hearer came upon unex¬ 
pectedly, as one comes upon a striking bit of 
scenery by a sudden turn of the road; who had 
a feeling for the order and beauty of words which 
we call style. The foremost of these artists— 
Boccaccio, Scott, Dumas, Smollett, Fielding, 
Turgenieff, Balzac, George Sand, Thackeray, 
Dickens, George Eliot, Hardy, Tolstoi, Haw¬ 
thorne—have enriched modem literature beyond 
any other group of writers, and have given 
fiction prominence as a literary form. What 
the drama was to English and French literature 
during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, 
fiction was to the same literatures during the 
nineteenth century — the most deeply felt, 
artistically used, and widely popular of all the 
forms of literature. “The Heart of Midlothian,” 
“The Three Guardsmen,” “Tom Jones,” 
“Smoke,” and “Liza,” “Pere Goriot,” “Vanity 
Fair,” “David Copperfield,” “Adam Bede,” 
“Far From the Madding Crowd,” “Anna 
Karenina,” and “The Scarlet Letter,” are not 
only masterpieces of the literary art, but they 
are in the highest sense representative of the 
most vital literary interest of their time. 

The short story, as a distinct variety of 


xi 


Introduction 


fiction, is at once the oldest and the newest form 
of the art. It was practised with skill as long 
ago as the creation of the tales known as “The 
Arabian Nights”; it had been told by countless 
unknown raconteurs for centuries when these 
ancient tales were born; it was employed by 
classic writers, and Boccaccio improved upon 
what the mediaeval story-tellers had been 
doing during the long period of the Middle Ages. 
But the perfection of the short story as a literary 
form, and its sharp differentiation from the long 
story, are the achievement of very recent times - 
The tales collected in these volumes have been 
selected because of their intrinsic interest, 
their literary quality, and their representative 
character. It is significant that, with the ex¬ 
ception of “Ali Baba,” Boccaccio’s “The Fal¬ 
con,” and Voltaire’s “Jeannot and Colin,” they 
were all written in the nineteenth century. They 
are, in a peculiar sense, the product of one time; 
they register its art, and they interpret its 
spirit. Its interest in psychology is expressed 
in “The Minister’s Black Veil” and “The Piece 
of String,” its liking for the problems of ratio¬ 
cination in “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” 
its humour in “The Pope’s Mule,” “The 
Comet,” “Providence and the Guitar,” its 
passion for “all sorts and conditions of men ” 
in “The Outcasts of Poker Flat,” its love of 
the mysterious in “Peter Schlemihl ” and “The 
Spectre Bridegroom,” its passion for adven¬ 
ture in “The Man Who Would Be King” and 
xii 


Introduction 


J, A Fight for the Tsarina,” its sense of the 
tragedy of life in “Without Benefit of Clergy” 
and “The Necklace,” its curiosity in “A Passion 
in the Desert” and “The Death of Olivier 
Becaille.” 

The novelist has a larger canvas, room for a 
more elaborate plot, time for a more extensive 
unfolding of motives, space for handling a 
larger number of characters; but he has no 
more exacting and difficult task than falls to 
the writer of the short story. The latter has to 
make as definite and as deep an impression on 
the imagination, and he has far less time in 
which to accomplish his purpose. He must 
invest his story with an atmosphere which shall 
enfold his reader and lay a spell on his senses as 
Poe has done in “The Pit and the Pendulum,” 
or compress the tragedy of a lifetime into 
a few pages, as De Maupassant does in “The 
Necklace,” or secure all the force and swiftness 
of a tumultuous current of narrative, as Mr. 
Kipling has done in “The Man Who Would Be 
King,” or stir the deepest emotions in a tale of 
love, as he has done in “Without Benefit of 
Clergy,” which an American critic of high 
standing has declared to be the best short 
story in English. 

In the short story of the first rank, power, 
skill, and invention combine to produce, with 
few materials, an effect similar in definiteness and 
intensity to that which lies within reach of the 
masters of fiction alone. The work of the 
xiii 


Introduction 


writer of the short story differs from theirs 
neither in quality nor in completeness; it 
differs only in magnitude. It involves, if 
possible, a firmer grasp of situations, a surer 
touch, a more sensitive feeling for dramatic 
values. It deals, as a rule, with an episode 
rather than a complete movement of experience; 
with a situation rather than with a series of 
events; with a single character or a striking 
contrast of character rather than with a group; 
it must be condensed without sacrifice of shading 
or atmosphere; it must move swiftly to its 
climax, without any appearance of haste; it 
must omit the great mass of details, and yet 
leave nothing essential unsaid. It is not a 
study for a longer tale, nor is it a long story 
abbreviated; it is a work of art which has its 
own laws, its special qualities, its individual 
sources of charm; it must stand complete in 
itself. 

In this collection, the endeavour has been made 
to bring together a group of short stories sufficient 
in number to illustrate the broadest diversity of 
manner, substance, and method, while preserving 
the unity of art in quality and workmanship; to 
show the different temperaments and points of 
different races as revealed in this form of litera¬ 
ture; and, above all, to put into the hands of 
intelligent readers a series of tales full of human 
interest and penetrated by that spirit of beauty 
which is one of the prime sources of joy in life. 

Hamilton Wright Mabie. 


xiv 




CONTENTS 

PART I 

PAGE 

Introduction, 

By Hamilton Wright Mabie ..... v 
“ The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” 

By Edgar Allan Poe. i 

“ The Pope’s Mule,” 

By Alphonse Daudet.54 

“ Without Benefit of Clergy,” 

By Rudyard Kipling.68 

“ The Mummy’s Foot,” 

By Theophile Gautier., . 104 

“ The Song of Triumphant Love,” 

By Ivan Sergeyevitch Turgenieff . . 123 

PART II 

“ Ali Baba and the Forty Robbers,” 

From the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments 1 
“ The Gridiron,” 

By Samuel Lover.59 

“The Cremona Violin,” 

By Ernst Theodor Wolfgang Hoffmann . 71 

“ Providence and the Guitar,” 

By Robert Louis Stevenson.108 

“ Rip Van Winkle,” 

By Washington Irving.151 


xv 















GOOD STORIES 


PART I 




THE MURDERS IN THE RUE 
MORGUE 

BY 

Edgar Allan Poe 

The mental features discoursed of as the an¬ 
alytical are, in themselves, but little susceptible 
of analysis. We appreciate them only in their 
effects. We know of them, among other things, 
that they are always to their possessor, when 
inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest 
enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his 
physical ability, delighting in such exercises as 
call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst 
in that moral activity which disentangles. He 
derives pleasure from even the most trivial 
occupations bringing his talent into play. He 
is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hiero¬ 
glyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each 
a degree of acumen which appears to the ordi¬ 
nary apprehension preternatural. His results, 
brought about by the very soul and essence of 
method, have, in truth, the whole air of intu¬ 
ition. 

The faculty of re-solution is possibly much 
invigorated by mathematical study, and es¬ 
pecially by that highest branch of it which, un¬ 
justly, and merely on account of its retrograde 


i 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


operations, has been called, as if par excellence , 
analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to 
analyse. A chess-player, for example, does 
the one, without effort at the other. It follows 
that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental 
character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not 
now writing a treatise, but simply prefacing a 
somewhat peculiar narrative by observations 
very much at random; I will, therefore, take 
occasion to assert that the higher powers of the 
reflective intellect are more decidedly and more 
usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of 
draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of 
chess. In this latter, where the pieces have dif¬ 
ferent and bizarre motions, with various and 
variable values, what is only complex is mistaken 
(a not unusual error) for what is profound. 
The attention is here called powerfully into play. 
If it flag for an instant, an oversight is commit¬ 
ted, resulting in injury or defeat. The possible 
moves being not only manifold, but involute, 
the chances of such oversights are multiplied; 
and, in nine cases out of ten, it is the more con- 
centrative rather than the more acute player 
who conquers. In draughts, on the contrary, 
where the moves are unique, and have but little 
variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are 
diminished, and the mere attention being left 
comparatively unemployed, what advantages 
are obtained by either party are obtained by 
superior acumen. To be less abstract; Let 
us suppose a game of draughts where the pieces 


2 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, 
no oversight is to be expected. It is obvious 
that here the victory can be decided (the players 
being at all equal) only by some recherche move¬ 
ment, the result of some strong exertion of the 
intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources, the 
analyst throws himself into the spirit of his op¬ 
ponent, identifies himself therewith, and not 
unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole 
methods (sometimes, indeed, absurdly simple 
ones) by which he may seduce into error or 
hurry into miscalculation. 

Whist has long been noted for its influence 
upon what is termed the calculating power; 
and men of the highest order of intellect have 
been known to take an apparently unaccountable 
delight in it, while eschewing chess as frivolous. 
Beyond doubt, there is nothing of a similar na¬ 
ture so greatly tasking the faculty of analysis. 
The best chess-player in Christendom may be 
little more than the best player of chess; but 
proficiency in whist implies capacity for success 
in all these more important undertakings where 
mind struggles with mind. When I say pro¬ 
ficiency, I mean that perfection in the game 
which includes a comprehension of all the sources 
whence legitimate advantage may be derived. 
These are not only manifold, but multiform, 
and lie frequently among the recesses of thought 
altogether inaccessible to the ordinary under¬ 
standing. To observe attentively is to remem¬ 
ber distinctly; and, so far, the concentrative 


3 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


chess-player will do very well at whist; while 
the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the 
mere mechanism of the game) are sufficiently 
and generally comprehensible. Thus, to have 
a retentive memory, and to proceed by “the 
book,” are points commonly regarded as the 
sum total of good playing. But it is in matters 
beyond the limits of mere rule that the skill of 
the analyst is evinced. He makes, in silence, 
a host of observations and inferences. So, per¬ 
haps, do his companions; and the difference in 
the extent of the information obtained lies not 
so much in the validity of the inference as in 
the quality of the observation. The necessary 
knowledge is that of what to observe. Our 
player confines himself not at all; nor, because 
the game is the object, does he reject deductions 
from things external to the game. He exam¬ 
ines the countenance of his partner, comparing it 
carefully with that of each of his opponents. 
He considers the mode of assorting the cards in 
each hand; often counting trump by trump, 
and honour by honour, through the glances be¬ 
stowed by their holders upon each. He notes 
every variation of face as the play progresses, 
gathering a fund of thought from the differences 
in the expression of certainty, of surprise, of 
triumph, or chagrin. From the manner of gath¬ 
ering up a trick, he judges whether the person 
taking it can make another in the suit. He rec¬ 
ognises what is played through feint, by the air 
with which it is thrown upon the table. A cas- 


4 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


ual or inadvertent word; the accidental drop¬ 
ping or turning of a card, with the accompany¬ 
ing anxiety or carelessness in regard to its con¬ 
cealment; the counting of the tricks, with the 
order of their arrangement; embarrassment, 
hesitation, eagerness, or trepidation—all afford, 
to his apparently intuitive perception, indica¬ 
tions of the true state of affairs. The first two 
or three rounds having been played, he is in full 
possession of the contents of each hand, and 
thenceforward puts down his cards with as abso¬ 
lute a precision of purpose as if the rest of the 
party had turned outward the faces of their own. 

The analytical power should not be confounded 
with simple ingenuity; for, while the analyst is 
necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often 
remarkably incapable of analysis. The con¬ 
structive or combining power, by which ingenu¬ 
ity is usually manifested, and to which the phre¬ 
nologists (I believe erroneously) have assigned 
a separate organ, supposing it a primitive fac¬ 
ulty, has been so frequently seen in those whose 
intellect bordered otherwise upon idiocy, as to 
have attracted general observation among 
writers on morals. Between ingenuity and the 
analytic ability there exists a difference far 
greater, indeed, than that between the fancy 
and the imagination, but of a character very 
strictly analogous. It will be found, in fact, 
that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the 
truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic. 

The narrative which follows will appear to the 

5 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


reader somewhat in the light of a commentary 
upon the propositions just advanced. 

Residing in Paris during the spring and part of 
the summer of 18—, I there became acquainted 
with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This young 
gentleman was of an excellent—indeed of an 
illustrious—family, but, by a variety of untoward 
events, had been reduced to such poverty that 
the energy of his character succumbed beneath 
it, and he ceased to bestir himself in the world 
or to care for the retrieval of his fortunes. By 
courtesy of his creditors, there still remained in 
his possession a small remnant of his patrimony; 
and upon the income arising from this he man¬ 
aged, by means of a rigorous economy, to pro¬ 
cure the necessaries of life, without troubling 
himself about its superfluities. Books, indeed, 
were his sole luxuries, and in Paris these are 
easily obtained. 

Our first meeting was at an obscure library in 
the Rue Montmartre, where the accident of our 
both being in search of the same very rare and 
very remarkable volume brought us into closer 
communion. We saw each other again and 
again. I was deeply interested in the little fam¬ 
ily history which he detailed to me with all that 
candour which a Frenchman indulges whenever 
mere self is the theme. I was astonished, too, 
at the vast extent of his reading; and, above all, 
I felt my soul enkindled within me by the wild 
fervour and the vivid freshness of his imagina¬ 
tion. Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, 
6 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


I felt that the society of such a man would be 
to me a treasure beyond price; and this feeling 
I frankly confided to him. It was at length 
arranged that we should live together during 
my stay in the city; and, as my worldly cir¬ 
cumstances were somewhat less embarrassed 
than his own, I was permitted to be at the ex¬ 
pense of renting and furnishing, in a style which 
suited the rather fantastic gloom of our common 
temper, a time-eaten and grotesque mansion, 
long deserted through superstitions into which 
we did not inquire, and tottering to its fall, in 
a retired and desolate portion of the Faubourg 
St. Germain. 

Had the routine of our life at this place been 
known to the world, we should have been re¬ 
garded as madmen—although, perhaps, as mad¬ 
men of a harmless nature. Our seclusion was 
perfect. We admitted no visitors. Indeed, the 
locality of our retirement had been carefully 
kept a secret from my own former associates; 
and it had been many years since Dupin had 
ceased to know or be known in Paris. We 
existed within ourselves alone. 

It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what 
else shall I call it ?) to be enamoured of the night 
for her own sake; and into this bizarrerie, as 
into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself 
up to his wild whims with a perfect abandon. 
The sable divinity would not herself dwell with 
us always; but we could counterfeit her pres¬ 
ence. At the first dawn of the morning we 


7 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


closed all the massy shutters of our old building, 
lighting a couple of tapers which, strongly per¬ 
fumed, threw out only the ghastliest and feeblest 
of rays. By the aid of these, we then busied our 
souls in dreams—reading, writing, or conversing, 
until warned by the clock of the advent of the 
true Darkness. Then we sallied forth into the 
streets, arm and arm, continuing the topics 
of the day, or roaming far and wide until a 
late hour, seeking amid the wild lights and 
shadows of the populous city that infinity of 
mental excitement which quiet observation 
can afford. 

At such times I could not help remarking 
and admiring (although from his rich ideality I 
had been prepared to expect it) a peculiar ana¬ 
lytic ability in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take 
an eager delight in its exercise—if not exactly 
in its display—and did not hesitate to confess 
the pleasure thus derived. He boasted to me, 
with a low chuckling laugh, that most men, in 
respect to himself, wore windows in their bosoms, 
and was wont to follow up such assertions by 
direct and very startling proofs of his intimate 
knowledge of my own. His manner at these 
moments was frigid and abstract; his eyes were 
vacant in expression; while his voice, usually a 
rich tenor, rose into a treble which would have 
sounded petulantly but for the deliberateness 
and entire distinctness of the enunciation. Ob¬ 
serving him in these moods, I often dwelt medi¬ 
tatively upon the old philosophy of the Bi-Part 
8 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a 
double Dupin—the creative and the resolvent. 

Let it not be supposed, from what I have just 
said, that I am detailing any mystery or penning 
any romance. What I have described in the 
Frenchman was merely the result of an excited, 
or perhaps of a diseased, intelligence. But of 
the character of his remarks at the period in 
question an example will best convey the idea. 

We were strolling one night down a long, 
dirty street, in the vicinity of the Palais Royal. 
Being both apparently occupied with thought, 
neither of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen 
minutes at least. All at once Dupin broke 
forth with these words: 

“He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and 
would do better for the Thedtre des Varies.” 

“There can be no doubt of that,” I replied 
unwittingly, and not at first observing (so much 
had I been absorbed in reflection) the ex¬ 
traordinary manner in which the speaker had 
chimed in with my meditations. In an instant 
afterward I recollected myself, and my aston¬ 
ishment was profound. 

“Dupin,” said I, gravely, “this is beyond my 
comprehension. I do not hesitate to say that 
I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses. 
How was it possible you should know I was 

thinking of-?” Here I paused, to ascertain 

beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom 
I thought. 

—“of Chantilly,” said he; “why do you pause? 


9 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


You were remarking to yourself that his diminu¬ 
tive figure unfitted hirti for tragedy.” 

This was precisely what had formed the sub¬ 
ject of my reflections. Chantilly was a quondam 
cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming 
stage-mad, had attempted the role of Xerxes, 
in Cr6billon’s tragedy so called, and been noto¬ 
riously pasquinaded for his pains. 

‘‘Tell me, for Heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed, 
“the method—if method there is—by which you 
have been enabled to fathom my soul in this 
matter.” In fact, I was even more startled than 
I would have been willing to express. 

“It was the fruiterer,” replied my friend, 
“who brought you to the conclusion that the 
mender of soles was not of sufficient height for 
Xerxes et id genus omne .” 

“The fruiterer!—you astonish me—I know 
no fruiterer whomsoever.” 

“The man who ran up against you as we en¬ 
tered the street—it may have been fifteen min¬ 
utes ago.” 

I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, 
carrying upon his head a large basket of apples, 
had nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we 
passed from the Rue C- into the thorough¬ 

fare where we stood; but what this had to do 
with Chantilly I could not possibly understand. 

There was not a particle of charlatanerie about 
Dupin. “I will explain,” he said; “and, that 
you may comprehend all clearly, we will first 
retrace the course of your meditations, from the 
io 



The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


moment in which I spoke to you until that of 
the rencontre with the fruiterer in question. The 
larger links of the chain run thus—Chantilly, 
Orion, Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the 
street stones, the fruiterer.” 

There are few persons who have not, at some 
period of their lives, amused themselves in re¬ 
tracing the steps by which particular conclusions 
of their own minds have been attained. The 
occupation is often full of interest; and he who 
attempts it for the first time is astonished by the 
apparently illimitable distance and incoherence 
between the starting-point and the goal. What, 
then, must have been my amazement when I 
heard the Frenchman speak what he had just 
spoken, and when I could not help acknowledg¬ 
ing that he had spoken the truth. He continued: 

‘‘We had been talking of horses, if I remember 

aright, just before leaving the Rue C-. This 

was the last subject we discussed. As we crossed 
into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket 
upon his head, brushing quickly past us, thrust 
you upon a pile of paving-stones collected at a 
spot where the causeway is undergoing repair. 
You stepped upon one of the loose fragments, 
slipped, slightly strained your ankle, appeared 
vexed or sulky, muttered a few words, turned 
to look at the pile, and then proceeded in silence. 
I was not particularly attentive to what you did; 
but observation has become with me, of late, a 
species of necessity. 

‘‘You kept your eyes upon the ground—glanc- 


11 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


ing with a petulant expression at the holes and 
ruts in the pavement (so that I saw you were 
still thinking of the stones), until we reached the 
little alley called Lamartine, which has been 
paved, by way of experiment, with the over¬ 
lapping and riveted blocks. Here your coun¬ 
tenance brightened up, and, perceiving your 
lips move, I could not doubt that you murmured 
the word ‘stereotomy,’ a term very affectedly 
applied to this species of pavement. I knew 
that you could not say to yourself ‘stereotomy’ 
without being brought to think of atomies, and 
thus of the theories of Epicurus; and since, 
when we discussed this subject not very long 
ago, I mentioned to you how singularly, yet with 
how little notice, the vague guesses of that noble 
Greek had met with confirmation in the late 
nebular cosmogony, I felt that you could not 
avoid casting your eyes upward to the great 
nebula in Orion, and I certainly expected you 
would do so. You did look up; and I was now 
assured that I had correctly followed your steps. 
But in that bitter tirade upon Chantilly, which 
appeared in yesterday’s Musee , the satirist, 
making some disgraceful allusions to the cob¬ 
bler’s change of name upon assuming the buskin, 
quoted a Latin line about which we have often 
conversed. I mean the line, 

Perdidit antiquum litera prima sontun.’ 

I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, 
formerly written Urion; and, from certain pun- 


12 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


gencies connected with this explanation, I was 
aware that you could not have forgotten it. 
It was clear, therefore, that you would not fail 
to combine the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly. 
That you did combine them, I saw by the char¬ 
acter of the smile which passed over your lips. 
You thought of the poor cobbler’s immolation. 
So far, you had been stooping in your gait; but 
now I saw you draw yourself up to your full 
height. I was then sure that you reflected upon 
the diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this 
point I interrupted your meditations to remark 
that as, in fact, he was a very little fellow—that 
Chantilly—he would do better at the Theatre 
des Variates.” 

Not long after this, we were looking over an 
evening edition of the Gazette des Tribunaux 
when the following paragraphs arrested our 
attention: 

“Extraordinary Murders. —This morning, 
about three o’clock, the inhabitants of the Quar- 
tier St. Roch were aroused from sleep by a suc¬ 
cession of terrific shrieks, issuing apparently 
from the fourth story of a house in the Rue 
Morgue, known to be in the sole occupancy of 
one Madame L’Espanaye, and her daughter, 
Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye. After some 
delay, occasioned by a fruitless attempt to pro¬ 
cure admission in the usual manner, the gate¬ 
way was broken in with a crowbar, and eight or 
ten of the neighbours entered, accompanied by 
two gendarmes. By this time the cries had 
ceased; but, as the party rushed up the first 
flight of stairs, two or more rough voices, in 

13 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


angry contention, were distinguished, and seemed 
to proceed from the upper part of the house. 
As the second landing was reached, these sounds 
also had ceased, and everything remained per¬ 
fectly quiet. The party spread themselves, and 
hurried from room to room. Upon arriving at 
a large back chamber in the fourth story 
(the door of which, being found locked, with 
the key inside, was forced open), a spectacle 
presented itself which struck every one pres¬ 
ent not less with horror than with astonish¬ 
ment. 

“The apartment was in the wildest disorder 
—the furniture broken and thrown about in all 
directions. There was only one bedstead, and 
from this the bed had been removed and thrown 
into the middle of the floor. On a chair lay a 
razor, besmeared with blood. On the hearth 
were two or three long and thick tresses of gray 
human hair, also dabbled in blood, and seeming 
to have been pulled out by the roots. Upon 
the floor were found four Napoleons, an ear¬ 
ring of topaz, three large silver spoons, three 
smaller of metal d’Alger, and two bags contain¬ 
ing nearly four thousand francs in gold. The 
drawers of a bureau, which stood in one comer, 
were open, and had been, apparently, rifled, 
although many articles still remained in them. 
A small iron safe was discovered under the bed 
(not under the bedstead). It was open, with 
the key still in the door. It had no contents 
beyond a few old letters, and other papers of 
little consequence. 

“Of Madame L’Espanaye no traces were here 
seen; but, an unusual quantity of soot being 
observed in the fireplace, a search was made in 
the chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse 
of the daughter, head downward, was dragged 
therefrom; it having been thus forced up the 
narrow aperture for a considerable distance. 


14 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


The body was quite warm. Upon examining it, 
many excoriations were perceived, no doubt 
occasioned by the violence with which it had 
been thrust up and disengaged. Upon the face 
were many severe scratches, and upon the 
throat, dark bruises, and deep indentations of 
finger-nails, as if the deceased had been throttled 
to death. 

“After a thorough investigation of every 
portion of the house, without further discovery, 
the party made its way into a small paved yard 
in the rear of the building, where lay the corpse 
of the old lady, with her throat so entirely cut, 
that, upon an attempt to raise her, the head fell 
off. The body, as well as the head, was fear¬ 
fully mutilated—the former so much so as 
scarcely to retain any semblance of humanity. 

“To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, 
we believe, the slightest clew.” 

The next day’s paper had these additional 
particulars: 

“ The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue. Many in¬ 
dividuals have been examined in relation to this 
most extraordinary and frightful affair” [the 
word “ affaire ” has not yet, in France, that lev¬ 
ity of import which it conveys with us], “but 
nothing whatever has transpired to throw light 
upon it. We give below all the material tes¬ 
timony elicited. 

“Pauline Dubourg, laundress, deposes that 
she has known both the deceased for thrqje years, 
having washed for them during that period. The 
old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms 
—very affectionate toward each other. They were 
excellent pay. Could not speak in regard to 
their mode or means of living. Believed that 
Madame L. told fortunes for a living. Was 
reputed to have money put by. Never met any 

i5 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


persons in the house when she called for the 
clothes or took them home. Was sure that they 
had no servant in employ. There appeared to 
be no furniture in any part of the building ex¬ 
cept in the fourth story. 

“Pierre Moreau , tobacconist, deposes that he 
has been in the habit of selling small quantities 
of tobacco and snuff to Madame L’Espanaye for 
nearly four years. Was born in the neighbour¬ 
hood, and has always resided there. The de¬ 
ceased and her daughter had occupied the house 
in which the corpses were found, for more than 
six years. It was formerly occupied by a jew¬ 
eller, who underlet the upper rooms to various 

E ersons. The house was tne property of Madame 
. She became dissatisfied with the abuse of 
the premises by her tenant, and moved into 
them herself, refusing to let any portion. The 
old lady was childish. Witness had seen the 
daughter some five or six times during the six 
years. The two lived an exceedingly retired 
life—were reputed to have money. Had heard 
it said among the neighbours that Madame L. 
told fortunes. Did not believe it. Had never 
seen any person enter the door except the old 
lady and her daughter, a porter once or twice, 
and a physician some eight or ten times. 

“Many other persons, neighbours, gave evi¬ 
dence to the same effect. No one was spoken of 
as frequenting the house. It was not known 
whether there were any living connections of 
Madame L. and her daughter. The shutters 
of the front windows were seldom opened. 
Those in the rear were always closed, with the 
exception of the large back room, fourth story. 
The house was a good house—not very old. 

“Isidore Muset, gendarme, deposes that he 
was called to the house about three o’clock in 
the morning, and found some twenty or thirty 
persons at the gateway, endeavouring to gain 

16 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


admittance. Forced it open at length, with a 
bayonet—not with a crowbar. Had but little 
difficulty in getting it open, on account of its 
being a double or folding-gate, and bolted neither 
at bottom nor top. The shrieks were continued 
until the gate was forced—and then suddenly 
ceased. They seemed to be screams of some 
person (or persons) in great agony—were loud 
and draws out, not short and quick. Witness 
led the way upstairs. Upon reaching the first 
landing, heard two voices in loud and angry con¬ 
tention: the one a gruff voice, the other much 
shriller—a very strange voice. Could distin¬ 
guish some words of the former, which was that 
of a Frenchman. Was positive that it was not 
a woman’s voice. Could distinguish the words 
‘ sacrJ’ and ‘ diable .’ The shrill voice was that 
of a foreigner. Could not be sure whether it was 
the voice of a man or of a woman. Could not 
make out what was said, but believed the lan¬ 
guage to be Spanish. The state of the room 
and of the bodies was described by this witness 
as we described them yesterday. 

“Henri Duval, a neighbour, and by trade a 
silversmith, deposed that he was one of the party 
who first entered the house. Corroborates the 
testimony of Muset in general. As soon as they 
forced an entrance, they reclosed the door, to 
keep out the crowd, which collected very fast, 
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. The 
shrill voice, this witness thinks, was that of an 
Italian. Was certain it was not French. Could 
not be sure that it was a man’s voice. It might 
have been a woman’s. Was not acquainted 
with the Italian language. Could not distin¬ 
guish the words, but was convinced, by the in¬ 
tonation, that the speaker was an Italian. Knew 
Madame L. and her daughter. Had conversed 
with both frequently. Was sure that the shrill 
voice was not that of either of the deceased. 


17 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


“ Odenheimer, restaurateur. This wit¬ 
ness volunteered his testimony. Not speaking 
French, was examined through an interpreter. 
Is a native of Amsterdam. Was passing the 
house at the time of the shrieks. They lasted 
for several minutes—probably ten. They were 
long and loud—very awful and distressing. 
Was one of those who entered the building. 
Corroborated the previous evidence in every 
respect but one. Was sure that the shrill voice 
was that of a man—-of a Frenchman. Could 
not distinguish the words uttered. They were 
loud and quick—unequal—spoken apparently 
in fear as well as in anger. The voice was harsh 
—not so much shrill as harsh. Could not call 
it a shrill voice. The gruff voice said repeatedly, 
* sacrt,' ‘ diable' and once l mon Dieu.’ 

“Jules Mignaud, banker, of the firm of 
Mignaud et Fils, Rue Deloraine. Is the elder 
Mignaud. Madame L’Espanaye had some 
property. Had opened an account with his 

banking house in the spring of the year- 

(eight years previously). Made frequent depos¬ 
its in small sums. Had checked for nothing until 
the third day before her death, when she took 
out in person the sum of 4,000 francs. This 
sum was paid in gold, and a clerk sent home 
with the money. 

“Adolphe Le Bon, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, 
deposes that on the day in question, about noon, 
he accompanied Madame L’Espanaye to her 
residence with the 4,000 francs, put up in two 
bags. Upon the door being opened, Mademoi¬ 
selle L. appeared, and took from his hands one 
of the bags, while the old lady relieved him of 
the other. He then bowed, and departed. Did 
not see any person in the street at the time. It 
is a bv-street—very lonely. 

“ William Bird, tailor, deposes that he was 
one of the party who entered the house. Is an 

18 





The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


Englishman. Has lived in Paris two years. 
Was one of the first to ascend the stairs. Heard 
the voices in contention. The gruff voice was 
that of a Frenchman. Could make out several 
words, but cannot now remember all. Heard 
distinctly ‘sacre * and ‘mon Dieu.' There was 
a sound at the moment as if of several persons 
struggling—a scraping and scuffling sound. 
The shrill voice was very loud—louder than the 
gruff one. Is sure that it was not the voice of 
an Englishman. Appeared to be that of a 
German. Might have been a woman’s voice. 
Does not understand German. 

“Four of the above-named witnesses, being 
recalled, deposed that the door of the chamber 
in which was found the body of Mademoiselle L. 
was locked on the inside when the party reached 
it. Everything was perfectly silent—no groans 
or noises of any kind. Upon forcing the door, 
no person was seen. The windows, both of the 
back and front room, were down and firmly 
fastened from within. A door between the two 
rooms was closed. The door leading from the 
front room into the passage was locked, with the 
key on the inside. A small room in the front of 
the house, on the fourth story, at the head of 
the passage, was open, the door being ajar. 
This room was crowded with old beds, boxes, 
and so forth. These were carefully removed 
and searched. There was not an inch of any 
portion of the house which was not carefully 
searched. Sweeps were sent up and down the 
chimneys. The house was a four-story one, 
with garrets ( mansardes ). A trap-door on the 
roof was nailed down very securely—did not 
appear to have been opened for years. The 
time elapsing between the hearing of the voices 
in contention and the breaking open of the room 
door was variously stated by the witnesses. 
Some made it as short as three minutes—some 


i9 


Masterpieces of Fiction 

as long as five. The door was opened with 
difficulty. 

“Alfonzo Garcia , undertaker, deposes that he 
resides in the Rue Morgue. Is a native of Spain. 
Was one of the party who entered the house. 
Did not proceed upstairs. Is nervous, and was 
apprehensive of the consequences of agitation. 
Heard the voices in contention. The gruff 
voice was that of a Frenchman. Could not dis¬ 
tinguish what was said. The shrill voice was 
that of an Englishman—is sure of this. Does 
not understand the English language, but judges 
by the intonation. 

“Alberto Montani, confectioner, deposes that 
he was among the first to ascend the stairs. 
Heard the voices in question. The gruff voice 
was that of a Frenchman. Distinguished sev¬ 
eral words. The speaker appeared to be ex¬ 
postulating. Could not make out the words 
of the shrill voice. Spoke quick and unevenly. 
Thinks it the voice of a Russian. Corroborates 
the general testimony. Is an Italian. Never 
conversed with a native of Russia. 

“Several witnesses, recalled, here testified that 
the chimneys of all the rooms on the fourth 
story were too narrow to admit the passage of 
a human being. By ‘sweeps’ were meant 
cylindrical sweeping-brushes, such as are em¬ 
ployed by those who clean chimneys. These 
brushes were passed up and down every flue in 
the house. There was no back passage by 
which any one could have descended while the 
party proceeded upstairs. The body of Made¬ 
moiselle L’Espanaye was so firmly wedged in 
the chimney that it could not be got down until 
four or five of the party united their strength. 

“Paul Dumas , physician, deposes that he 
was called to view the bodies about daybreak. 
They were both then lying on the sacking of the 
bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. 


20 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


was found. The corpse of the young lady was 
much bruised and excoriated. The fact that 
it had been thrust up the chimney would suffi¬ 
ciently account for these appearances. The 
throat was greatly chafed. There were several 
deep scratches just below the chin, together with 
a series of livid spots which were evidently the 
impression of fingers. The face was fearfully 
discoloured, and the eyeballs protruded. The 
tongue had been partially bitten through. A 
large bruise was discovered upon the pit of the 
stomach, produced apparently by the pressure 
of a knee. In the opinion of M. Dumas, Made¬ 
moiselle L’Espanaye had been throttled to death 
by some person or persons unknown. The 
corpse of the mother was horribly mutilated. 
All the bones of the right leg and arm were more 
or less shattered. The left tibia much splintered, 
as well as all the ribs of the left side. Whole 
body dreadfully bruised and discoloured. It 
was not possible to say how the injuries had been 
inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad 
bar of iron—a chair—any large, heavy, and ob¬ 
tuse weapon would have produced such results, 
if wielded by the hands of a very powerful man. 
No woman could have inflicted the blows with 
any weapon. The head of the deceased, when 
seen by witness, was entirely separated from the 
body, and was also greatly shattered. The 
throat had evidently been cut with some very 
sharp instrument—probably with a razor. 

“Alexandre Etienne , surgeon, was called with 
M. Dumas to view the bodies. Corroborated 
the testimony and the opinions of M. Dumas. 

“Nothing further of importance was elicited, 
although several other persons were examined. 
A murder so mysterious, and so perplexing in all 
its particulars, was never before committed in 
Pans—if, indeed, a murder has been committed 
at all. The police are entirely at fault—an 


21 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


unusual occurrence in affairs of this nature. 
There is not, however, the shadow of a clew 
apparent.” 

The evening edition of the paper stated that 
the greatest excitement still continued in the 
Quartier St. Roch—that the premises in ques¬ 
tion had been carefully re-searched, and fresh 
examinations of witnesses instituted, but all to 
no purpose. A postscript, however, mentioned 
that Adolphe Le Bon had been arrested and 
imprisoned, although nothing appeared to crimi¬ 
nate him, beyond the facts already detailed. 

Dupin seemed singularly interested in the 
progress of this affair—at least so I judged from 
his manner, for he made no comments. It was 
only after the announcement that Le Bon had 
been imprisoned that he asked me my opinion 
respecting the murders. 

I could merely agree with all Paris in consid¬ 
ering them an insoluble mystery. I saw no 
means by which it would be possible to trace 
the murderer. 

“We must not judge of the means,” said 
Dupin, “by this shell of an examination. The 
Parisian police, so much extolled for acumen, 
are cunning, but no more. There is no method 
in their proceedings, beyond the method of the 
moment. They make a vast parade of measures; 
but, not unfrequently, these are so ill adapted 
to the objects proposed, as to put us in mind 
of Monsieur Jourdain’s calling for his robe de 
chambre—pour mieux entendre la musique. The 


22 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


results attained by them are not unfrequently 
surprising, but, for the most part, are brought 
about by simple diligence and activity. When 
these qualities are unavailing, their schemes 
fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser 
and a persevering man. But, without educated 
thought, he erred continually by the very in¬ 
tensity of his investigations. He impaired his 
vision by holding the object too close. He 
might see, perhaps, one or two points with un¬ 
usual clearness, but in so doing he necessarily 
lost sight of the matter as a whole. Thus there 
is such a thing as being too profound. Truth 
is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the 
more important knowledge, I do believe that she 
is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the 
valleys where we seek her, and not upon the 
mountain-tops where she is found. The modes 
and sources of this kind of error are well typi¬ 
fied in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. 
To look at a star by glances—to view it in a 
sidelong way, by turning toward it the exterior 
portions of the retina (more susceptible of feeble 
impressions of light than the interior), is to be¬ 
hold the star distinctly—is to have the best 
appreciation of its lustre; a lustre which grows 
dim just in proportion as we turn our vision 
fully upon it. A greater number of rays actually 
fall upon the eye in the latter case, but, in the 
former, there is the more refined capacity for 
comprehension. By undue profundity we per¬ 
plex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to 
23 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


make even Venus herself vanish from the firma¬ 
ment by a scrutiny too sustained, too concen¬ 
trated, or too direct. 

“As for these murders, let us enter into some 
examinations for ourselves, before we make up 
an opinion respecting them. An inquiry will 
afford us amusement” [I thought this an odd 
term, so applied, but said nothing], “and, 
besides, Le Bon once rendered me a service 
for which I am not ungrateful. We will go 
and see the premises with our own eyes. I 

know G-, the Prefect of Police, and shall 

have no difficulty in obtaining the necessary 
permission.” 

The permission was obtained, and we pro¬ 
ceeded at once to the Rue Morgue. This is one 
of those miserable thoroughfares which inter¬ 
vene between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue 
St. Roch. It was late in the afternoon when 
we reached it, as this quarter is at a great dis¬ 
tance from that in which we resided. The house 
was readily found; for there were still many 
persons gazing up at the closed shutters, with 
an objectless curiosity, from the opposite side 
of the way. It was an ordinary Parisian house, 
with a gateway on one side of which was a glazed 
watch-box, with a sliding panel in the window, 
indicating a loge de concierge. Before going in 
we walked up the street, turned down an alley, 
and then, again turning, passed in the rear 
of the building—Dupin, meanwhile, examining 
the whole neighbourhood, as well as the house, 


24 



The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


with a minuteness of attention for which I could 
see no possible object. 

Retracing our steps, we came again to the 
front of the dwelling, rang, and, having shown 
our credentials, were admitted by the agents in 
charge. We went upstairs—into the chamber 
where the body of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye 
had been found, and where both the deceased 
still lay. The disorders of the room had, as 
usual, been suffered to exist. I saw nothing 
beyond what had been stated in the Gazette des 
Tribunaux. Dupin scrutinised everything, not 
excepting the bodies of the victims. We then 
went into the other rooms, and into the yard; 
a gendarme accompanying us throughout. The 
examination occupied us until dark, when we 
took our departure. On our way home my com¬ 
panion stepped in for a moment at the office of 
one of the daily papers. 

I have said that the whims of my friend were 
manifold, and that Je les menagais :—for this 
phrase there is no English equivalent. It was 
his humour, now, to decline all conversation on 
the subject of the murder until about noon the 
next day. He then asked me if I had observed 
anything peculiar at the scene of the atrocity. 

There was something in his manner of em¬ 
phasising the word “peculiar ” which caused 
me to shudder, without knowing why. 

“No, nothing peculiar ,” I said; “nothing more, 
at least, than we both saw stated in the paper.” 

“The Gazette ,” he replied, “ has not entered, I 

25 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


fear, into the unusual horror of the thing. But 
dismiss the idle opinions of this print. It ap¬ 
pears to me that this mystery is considered in¬ 
soluble, for the very reason which should cause 
it to be regarded as easy of solution—I mean, for 
the outrt character of its features. The police 
are confounded by the seeming absence of 
motive: not for the murder itself, but for the 
atrocity of the murder. They are puzzled, too, 
by the seeming impossibility of reconciling the 
voices heard in contention with the facts that no 
one was discovered upstairs but the assassinated 
Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and that there were 
no means of egress without the notice of the 
party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; 
the corpse thrust, with the head downward, up 
the chimney; the frightful mutilation of the 
body of the old lady—these considerations, with 
those just mentioned, and others which I need 
not mention, have sufficed to paralyse the pow¬ 
ers, by putting completely at fault the boasted 
acumen, of the government agents. They have 
fallen into the gross but common error of con¬ 
founding the unusual with the abstruse. But 
it is by these deviations from the plane of the 
ordinary that reason feels its way, if at all, in its 
search for the true. In investigations such as 
we are now pursuing, it should not be so much 
asked ‘what has occurred,’ as ‘what has occurred 
that has never occurred before.’ In fact, the 
facility with which I shall arrive, or have ar¬ 
rived, at the solution of this mystery, is in the 
26 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


direct ratio of its apparent insolubility in the 
eyes of the police.” 

I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment. 

“I am now awaiting,” continued he, looking 
toward the door of our apartment—‘‘I am now 
awaiting a person who, although perhaps not 
the perpetrator of these butcheries, must have 
been in some measure implicated in their per¬ 
petration. Of the worst portion of the crimes 
committed it is probable that he is innocent. 
I hope that I am right in this supposition; for 
upon it I build my expectation of reading the 
entire riddle. I look for the man here—in this 
room—every moment. It is true that he may 
not arrive; but the probability is that he will. 
Should he come, it will be necessary to detain 
him. Here are pistols; and we both know how 
to use them when occasion demands their use.” 

I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, 
or believing what I heard, while Dupin went on, 
very much as if in a soliloquy. I have already 
spoken of his abstract manner at such times. 
His discourse was addressed to myself; but his 
voice, although by no means loud, had that in¬ 
tonation which is commonly employed in speak¬ 
ing to some one at a great distance. His eyes, 
vacant in expression, regarded only the wall. 

“That the voices heard in contention,” he said, 
“by the party upon the stairs, were not the voices 
of the women themselves, was fully proved by the 
evidence. This relieves us of all doubt upon the 
question whether the old lady could have first 
27 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


destroyed the daughter, and afterward have com¬ 
mitted suicide. I speak of this point chiefly for 
the sake of method; for the strength of Madame 
L’Espanaye would have been utterly unequal to 
the task of thrusting her daughter’s corpse up the 
chimney as it was found; and the nature of the 
wounds upon her own person entirely preclude 
the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has 
been committed by some third party; and the 
voices of this third party were those heard in con¬ 
tention. Let me now advert—not to the whole 
testimony respecting these voices—but to what 
was peculiar in that testimony. Did you observe 
anything peculiar about it?” 

I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed 
in supposing the gruff voice to be that of a French¬ 
man, there was much disagreement in regard to 
the shrill, or, as one individual termed it, the 
harsh voice. 

“That was the evidence itself,” said Dupin, 
“but it was not the peculiarity of the evidence. 
You have observed nothing distinctive. Yet 
there was something to be observed. The wit¬ 
nesses, as you remark, agreed about the gruff 
voice; they were here unanimous. But in regard 
to the shrill voice, the peculiarity is—not that 
they disagreed—but that, while an Italian, an 
Englishman, a Spaniard, a Hollander, and a 
Frenchman attempted to describe it, each one 
spoke of it as that of a foreigner. Each is sure 
that it was not the voice of one of his own country¬ 
men. Each likens it—not to the voice of an 
28 



The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


individual of any nation with whose language he 
is conversant—but the converse. The French¬ 
man supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and 
‘might have distinguished some words, had he 
been acquainted with the Spanish' The Dutch¬ 
man maintains it to have been that of a French¬ 
man; but we find it stated that, ‘ not understand¬ 
ing French, this witness was examined through an 
interpreter.' The Englishman thinks it the voice 
of a German, and 'does not understand German.’ 
The Spaniard ‘is sure’ that it was that of an 
Englishman, but ‘judges by the intonation’ alto¬ 
gether, ‘as he has no knowledge of the English' 
The Italian believes in the voice of a Russian, 
but ‘ has never conversed with a native of Russia.’ 
A second Frenchman differs, moreover, with the 
first, and is positive that the voice was that of an 
Italian; but, not being cognisant of that tongue, is, 
like the Spaniard, ‘convinced by the intonation.’ 
Now, how strangely unusual must that voice 
have really been, about which such testimony as 
this could have been elicited!—in whose tones, 
even, denizens of the five great divisions of 
Europe could recognise nothing familiar! You 
will say that it might have been the voice of an 
Asiatic—of an African. Neither Asiatics nor 
Africans abound in Paris; but, without denying 
the inference, I will now merely call your atten¬ 
tion to three points. The voice is termed by one 
witness ‘harsh rather than shrill.’ It is repre¬ 
sented by two others to have been ‘quick and 
unequal.’ No words—no sounds resembling 
29 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


words—were by any witness mentioned as dis¬ 
tinguishable. 

“I know not,” continued Dupin, “what im¬ 
pression I may have made, so far, upon your own 
understanding; but I do not hesitate to say that 
legitimate deductions even from this portion of 
the testimony—the portion respecting the gruff 
and shrill voices-—are in themselves sufficient to 
engender a suspicion which should give direction 
to all farther progress in the investigation of the 
mystery. I said ‘ legitimate deductions ’; but my 
meaning is not thus fully expressed. I designed 
to imply that the deductions are the sole proper 
ones, and that the suspicion arises inevitably from 
them as the single result. What the suspicion 
is, however, I will not say just yet. I merely 
wish you to bear in mind that, with myself, it was 
sufficiently forcible to give a definite form, a cer¬ 
tain tendency, to my inquiries in the chamber. 

“Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to 
this chamber. What shall we first seek here? 
The means of egress employed by the murderers. 
It is not too much to say that neither of us 
believes in preternatural events. Madame and 
Mademoiselle L’Espanaye were not destroyed by 
spirits. The doers of the deed were material, and 
escaped materially. Then, how? Fortunately, 
there is but one mode of reasoning upon the point, 
and that mode must lead us to a definite decision. 
Let us examine, each by.each, the possible means 
of egress. It is clear that the assassins were in 
the room where Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was 
30 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


found, or at least in the room adjoining, when the 
party ascended the stairs. It is then only from 
these two apartments that we have to seek issues. 
The police have laid bare the floors, the ceilings, 
and the masonry of the walls, in every direction. 
No secret issues could have escaped their vigi¬ 
lance. But, not trusting to their eyes, I exam¬ 
ined with my own. There were, then, no secret 
issues. Both doors leading from the rooms into 
the passage were securely locked, with the keys 
inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. These, 
although of ordinary width for some eight or ten 
feet above the hearths, will not admit, through¬ 
out their extent, the body of a large cat. The 
impossibility of egress, by the means already 
stated, being thus absolute, we are reduced to 
the windows. Through those of the front room, 
no one could have escaped without notice from 
the crowd in the street. The murderers must 
have passed, then, through those of the back 
room. Now, brought to this conclusion in so 
unequivocal a manner as we are, it is our part, 
as reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent 
impossibilities. It is only left for us to prove that 
these apparent ‘impossibilities’ are, in reality, 
not such. 

“There are two windows in the chamber. 
One of them is unobstructed by furniture, and is 
wholly visible. The lower portion of the other 
is hidden from view by the head of the unwieldy 
bedstead, which is thrust close up against it. 
The former was found securely fastened from 


3i 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


within. It resisted the utmost force of those 
who endeavoured to raise it. A large gimlet-hole 
had been pierced in its frame to the left, and a 
very stout nail was found fitted therein, nearly 
to the head. Upon examining the other window, 
a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; and 
a vigorous attempt to raise this sash failed also. 
The police were now entirely satisfied that egress 
had not been in these directions. And, therefore , 
it was thought a matter of supererogation to 
withdraw the nails and open the windows. 

“My own examination was somewhat more 
particular, and was so for the reason I have just 
given; because here it was, I knew, that all appar¬ 
ent impossibilities must be proved to be not such 
in reality. 

“I proceeded to think thus—<2 posteriori. The 
murderers did escape from one of these windows. 
This being so, they could not have refastened the 
sashes from the inside, as they were found fast¬ 
ened: the consideration which put a stop, through 
its obviousness, to the scrutiny of the police in 
this quarter. Yet the sashes were fastened. 
They must , then, have the power of fastening 
themselves. There was no escape from this con¬ 
clusion. I stepped to the unobstructed case¬ 
ment, withdrew the nail with some difficulty, 
and attempted to raise the sash. It resisted all 
my efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed 
spring must, I now knew, exist; and this cor¬ 
roboration of my idea convinced me that my 
premises, at least, were correct, however mys- 

3 2 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


terious still appeared the circumstances attend¬ 
ing the nails. A careful search soon brought to 
light the hidden spring. I pressed it, and, satis¬ 
fied with the discovery, forbore to upraise the 
sash. 

“I now replaced the nail, and regarded it 
attentively. A person passing out through this 
window might have reclosed it, and the spring 
w r ould have caught—but the nail could not have 
been replaced. The conclusion was plain, and 
again narrowed in the field of my investigations. 
The assassins must have escaped through the 
other window. Supposing, then, the springs 
upon each sash to be the same—as was probable 
—there must be found a difference between the 
nails, or at least between the modes of their 
fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bed¬ 
stead, I looked over the head-board minutely at 
the second casement. Passing my hand down 
behind the board, I readily discovered and 
pressed the spring, which was, as I had sup¬ 
posed, identical in character with its neighbour. 
I now looked at the nail. It was as stout as the 
other, and apparently fitted in the same manner 
—driven in nearly up to the head. 

“You will say that I was puzzled; but, if you 
think so, you must have misunderstood the 
nature of the inductions. To use a sporting 
phrase, I had not been once ‘at fault.’ The 
scent had never for an instant been lost. There 
was no flaw in any link of the chain. I had 
traced the secret to its ultimate result—and that 


33 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


result was the nail. It had, I say, in every 
respect, the appearance of its fellow in the other 
window; but this fact was an absolute nullity 
(conclusive as it might seem to be) when com¬ 
pared with the consideration that here, at this 
point, terminated the clew. ‘There must be 
Something wrong,’ I said, ‘about the nail.’ I 
touched it; and the head, with about a quarter 
of an inch of the shank, came off in my fingers. 
The rest of the shank was in the gimlet-hole, 
where it had been broken off. The fracture was 
an old one (for its edges were incrusted with 
rust), and had apparently been accomplished by 
the blow of a hammer, which had partially em¬ 
bedded, in the top of the bottom sash, the head 
portion of the nail. I now carefully replaced 
this head portion in the indentation whence I 
had taken it, and the resemblance to a perfect 
nail was complete—the fissure was invisible. 
Pressing the spring, I gently raised the sash for a 
few inches; the head went up with it, remaining 
firm in its bed. I closed the window, and the 
semblance of the whole nail was again perfect. 

“The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The 
assassin had escaped through the window which 
looked upon the bed. Dropping of its own ac¬ 
cord upon his exit (or perhaps purposely closed), 
it had become fastened by the spring; and it was 
the retention of this spring which had been mis¬ 
taken by the police for that of the nail—further 
inquiry being thus considered unnecessary. 

“The next question is that of the mode of 


34 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


descent. Upon this point I had been satisfied 
in my walk with you around the building. About 
five feet and a half from the casement in question 
there runs a lightning-rod. From this rod it 
would have been impossible for any one to reach 
the window itself, to say nothing of entering it. 
I observed, however, that the shutters of the 
fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by 
Parisian carpenters ferrades —a kind rarely em¬ 
ployed at the present day, but frequently seen 
upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bordeaux. 
They are in the form of an ordinary door (a single, 
not a folding door), except that the upper half is 
latticed or Worked in open trellis—thus affording 
an excellent hold for the hands. In the present 
instance these shutters are fully three feet and a 
half broad. Wheli we saw them front the rear 
of the house, they were both about half open— 
that is to say, they stood off at right angles from 
the wall. It is probable that the police, as well 
as myself, examined the back of the tenement; 
but, if so, in looking at these ferrcldes in the line 
of their breadth (as they must have done), they 
did not perceive this great breadth itself, or, at 
all events, failed to take it into due consideration. 
In fact, having once satisfied themselves that no 
egress could have been made in this quarter, they 
would naturally bestow here a very cursory exam¬ 
ination. It was clear to me, hbwever, that the 
shutter belonging to the wihdoW at the head of 
the bed would, if swung fully back to the wall, 
reach to within two feet of the lightning-rod. It 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


was also evident that, by exertion of a very 
unusual degree of activity and courage, an 
entrance into the window, from the rod, might 
have been thus effected. By reaching to the 
distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose 
the shutter open to its whole extent), a robber 
might have taken a firm grasp upon the trellis- 
work. Letting go, then, his hold upon the rod, 
placing his feet securely against the wall, and 
springing boldly from it, he might have swung 
the shutter so as to close it, and, if we imagine 
the window open at the time, might even have 
swung himself into the room. 

“I wish you to bear especially in mind that I 
have spoken of a very unusual degree of activity 
as requisite to success in so hazardous and so 
difficult a feat. It is my design to show you, 
first, that the thing might possibly have been 
accomplished; but, secondly and chiefly, I wish 
to impress upon your understanding the very 
extraordinary, the almost preternatural, charac¬ 
ter of that agility which could have accom¬ 
plished it. 

“You will say, no doubt, using the language of 
the law, that ‘to make out my case* I should 
rather undervalue than insist upon a full estima¬ 
tion of the activity required in this matter. This 
may be the practice in law, but it is not the usage 
of reason. My ultimate object is only the truth. 
My immediate purpose is to lead you to place 
in juxtaposition that very unusual activity, of 
which I have just spoken, with that very peculiar 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


shrill (or harsh) and unequal voice, about whose 
nationality no two persons could be found to 
agree, and in whose utterance no syllabification 
could be detected.” 

At these words a vague and half-formed con¬ 
ception of the meaning of Dupin flitted over my 
mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of com¬ 
prehension, without power to comprehend; as 
men, at times, find themselves upon the brink of 
remembrance, without being able, in the end, to 
remember. My friend went on with his dis¬ 
course. 

“You will see,” he said, “that I have shifted 
the question from the mode of egress to that of 
ingress. It was my design to suggest that both 
were effected in the same manner, at the same 
point. Let us now revert to the interior of the 
room. Let us survey the appearances here. 
The drawers of the bureau, it is said, had been 
rifled, although many articles of apparel still 
remained within them. The conclusion here is 
absurd. It is a mere guess—a very silly one— 
and no more. How are we to know that the 
articles found in the drawers were not all these 
drawers had originally contained ? Madame L'Es- 
panaye and her daughter lived an exceed¬ 
ingly retired life—saw no company, seldom went 
out, had little use for numerous changes of habili¬ 
ment. Those found were at least of as good 
quality as any likely to be possessed by these 
ladies. If a thief had taken any, why did he not 
take the £>est—why did he not take all? In a 

37 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


word, why did he abandon four thousand francs 
in gold to encumber himself with a bundle of 
linen? The gold was abandoned. Nearly the 
whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the 
banker, was discovered, in bags, upon the floor. 
I wish you, therefore, to discard from your 
thoughts the blundering idea of a motive , engen¬ 
dered in the brains of the police by that portion 
of the evidence which speaks of money delivered 
at the door of the house. Coincidences ten times 
as remarkable as this (the delivery of the money, 
and murder committed within three days upon 
the party receiving it) happen to all of us every 
hour of our lives, without attracting even mo¬ 
mentary notice. Coincidences, in general, are 
great stumbling-blocks in the way of that class of 
thinkers who have been educated to know noth¬ 
ing of the theory of probabilities: that theory to 
which the most glorious objects of human research 
are indebted for the most glorious of illustration. 
In the present instance, had the gold been gone, 
the fact of its delivery three days before would 
have formed something more than a coincidence. 
It would have been corroborative of this idea of 
motive. But, under the real circumstances of 
the case, if we are to suppose gold the motive of 
this outrage, we must also imagine the perpetrator 
so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his 
gold and his motive together. 

“Keeping now steadily in mind the points to 
which I have drawn your attention—that peculiar 
voice, that unusual agility, and that startling 
38 




The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


absence of motive in a murder so singularly 
atrocious as this—let us glance at the butchery 
itself. Here is a woman strangled to death by 
manual strength, and thrust up a chimney, head 
downward. Ordinary assassins employ no such 
modes of murder as this. Least of all, do they 
thus dispose of the murdered. In the manner of 
thrusting the corpse up the chimney, you will 
admit that there was something excessively outre 
—something altogether irreconcilable with our 
common notions of human action, even when we 
suppose the actors the most depraved of men. 
Think, too, how great must have been that 
strength which could have thrust the body up 
such an aperture so forcibly that the united 
vigour of several persons was found barely suf¬ 
ficient to drag it down ! 

“Turn, now, to other indications of the employ¬ 
ment of a vigour most marvellous. On the 
hearth were thick tresses—very thick tresses— 
of gray human hair. These had been tom out 
by the roots. You are aware of the great force 
necessary in tearing thus from the head even 
twenty or thirty hairs together. You saw the 
locks in question as well as myself. Their roots 
(a hideous sight!) were clotted with fragments 
of the flesh of the scalp: sure token of the prodig¬ 
ious power which had been exerted in uprooting 
perhaps half a million of hairs at a time. The 
throat of the old lady was not merely cut, but 
the head absolutely severed from the body: the 
instrument was a mere razor. I wish you also 


39 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


to look at the brutal ferocity of these deeds. Of 
the bruises upon the body of Madame L’Espanaye 
I do not speak. Monsieur Dumas, and his 
worthy coadjutor Monsieur Etienne, have pro¬ 
nounced that they were inflicted by some obtuse 
instrument; and so far these gentlemen are very 
correct. The obtuse instrument was clearly the 
stone pavement in the yard, upon which the vic¬ 
tim had fallen from the window which looked in 
upon the bed. This idea, however simple it may 
now seem, escaped the police for the same reason 
that the breadth of the shutters escaped them— 
because, by the affair of the nails, their per¬ 
ceptions had been hermetically sealed against the 
possibility of the windows having ever been 
opened at all. 

“If now, in addition to all these things, you 
have properly reflected upon the odd disorder of 
the chamber, we have gone so far as to combine 
the ideas of an agility astounding, a strength 
superhuman, a ferocity brutal, a butchery with¬ 
out motive, a grotesquerie in horror absolutely 
alien from humanity, and a voice foreign in tone 
to the ears of men of many nations, and devoid 
of all distinct or intelligible syllabification. What 
result, then, has ensued? What impression have 
I made upon your fancy?” 

I felt a creeping of the flesh as Dupin asked me 
the question. “A madman,” I said, “has done 
this deed—some raving maniac, escaped from a 
neighbouring Maison de Sante” 

“In some respects,” he replied, “your idea is 


40 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


not irrelevant. But the voices of madmen, even 
in their wildest paroxysms, are never found to 
tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the 
stairs. Madmen are of some nation, and their 
language, however incoherent in its words, has 
always the coherence of syllabification. Besides, 
the hair of a madman is not such as I now hold 
in my hand. I disentangled this little tuft from 
the rigidly clutched fingers of Madame L’Espa- 
naye. Tell me what you can make of it.” 

“Dupin!” I said, completely unnerved; “this 
hair is most unusual—this is no human hair.” 

“I have not asserted that it is,” said he; “but, 
before we decide this point, I wish you to glance 
at the little sketch I have here traced upon this 
paper. It is a facsimile drawing of what has 
been described in one portion of the testimony as 
‘dark bruises, and deep indentations of finger¬ 
nails,’ upon the throat of Mademoiselle L’Espa- 
naye, and in another (by Messrs. Dumas and 
Etienne) as a ‘series of livid spots, evidently the 
impression of fingers.’ 

“You will perceive,” continued my friend, 
spreading out the paper upon the table before 
us, “that this drawing gives the idea of a firm 
and fixed hold. There is no slipping apparent. 
Each finger has retained—possibly until the 
death of the victim—the fearful grasp by which 
it originally imbedded itself. Attempt, now, to 
place all your fingers, at the same time, in the 
respective impressions as you see them.” 

I made the attempt in vain. 


4i 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


“We are possibly not givifig this matter a fair 
trial," he said. “The paper is spread out upon 
a plane surface; but the human throat is cylin¬ 
drical. Here is a billet of wood, the circumfer¬ 
ence of which is about that of the throat. Wrap 
the drawing around it, and try the experiment 
again." 

I did so; but the difficulty was even more ob¬ 
vious than before. “This,” I said, “is the mark 
of no human hand.” 

“Read now,” replied Dupin, “this passage 
from Cuvief.” 

Jt was a minute anatomical and generally 
descriptive account of the large fulvous Orang- 
Outang of the East Indian Islands. The gigantic 
stature, the prodigious strength and activity, 
the wild ferocity, and the imitative propensities 
of these mammalia are sufficiently well known to 
all. I understood the full horrors of the murder 
at once. 

v “The description of the digits,” said I, as I 
made an end of reading, “is in exact accordance 
with this drawing. I see that no animal but an 
Orang-Outang, of the species here mentioned, 
could have impressed the indentations as you 
have traced them. This tuft of tawny hair, too, 
is identical in character with that of the beast of 
Cuvier. But I cannot possibly comprehend the 
particulars of this frightful mystery. Besides, 
there were two voices heard in contention, and 
one of them was uiiquestiohably the voice of a 
Frenchman.” 


42 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


“True; and you will remember an expression 
attributed almost unanimously, by the evidence, 
to this voice—the expression, l mon Dieu!' This, 
under the circumstances, has been justly charac¬ 
terised by one of the witnesses (Montani, the con¬ 
fectioner) as an expression of remonstrance or 
expostulation. Upon these two words, there¬ 
fore, I have mainly built my hopes of a full solu¬ 
tion of the riddle. A Frenchman was cognisant 
of the murder. It is possible-—indeed, it is far 
more than probable—that he was innocent of all 
participation in the bloody transactions which 
took place. The Orang-Outang may have escaped 
from him. He may have traced it to the chamber; 
but, under the agitating circumstances which 
ensued, he could never have recaptured it. It is 
still at large. I will not pursue these guesses— 
for I have no right to call them more—since the 
shades of reflection upon which they are based 
are scarcely of sufficient depth to be appreciable 
by my own intellect, and since I could not 
pretend to make them intelligible to the un¬ 
derstanding of another. We will call them 
guesses, then, and speak of them as such. 
If the Frenchman in question is indeed, as 
I suppose, innocent of this atrocity, this 
advertisement, which I left last night, upon 
our return home, at the office of Le Monde 
(a paper devoted to the shipping interest, 
and much sought by sailors), will bring him 
to our residence.” 

He handed me a paper, and I read thus: 


43 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


“Caught —In the Bois de Boulogne, early in 

the morning of the - inst. [the morning of the 

murder], a very large, tawny Orang-Outang of 
the Bornese species. The owner (who is ascer¬ 
tained to be a sailor, belonging to a Maltese ves¬ 
sel) may have the animal again, upon identify¬ 
ing it satisfactorily, and paying a few charges 
arising from its capture and keeping. Call at 

No. -, Rue -, Faubourg St. Germain — 

au troisieme." 

“How was it possible,” I asked, “that you 
should know the man to be a sailor, and belonging 
to a Maltese vessel?” 

“I do not know it,” said Dupin. “I am not 
sure of it. Here, however, is a small piece of rib¬ 
bon, which, from its form, and from its greasy 
appearance, has evidently been used in tying the 
hair in one of those long queues of which sailors 
are so fond. Moreover, this knot is one which 
few besides sailors can tie, and is peculiar to the 
Maltese. I picked the ribbon up at the foot of 
the lightning-rod. It could not have belonged 
to either of the deceased. Now if, after all, I am 
wrong in my induction from this ribbon, that the 
Frenchman was a sailor belonging to a Maltese 
vessel, still I can have done no harm in saying 
what I did in the advertisement. If I am in 
error, he will merely suppose that I have been 
misled by some circumstance into which he will 
not take the trouble to inquire. But if I am 
right, a great point is gained. Cognisant although 
innocent of the murder, the Frenchman will 
naturally hesitate about replying to the adver- 


44 



The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


tisement—about demanding the Orang-Outang. 
He will reason thus: ‘ I am innocent; I am poor; 
my Orang-Outang is of great value — to one in 
my circumstances a fortune of itself—why should 
I lose it through idle apprehensions of danger? 
Here it is, within my grasp. It was found in the 
Bois de Boulogne—at a vast distance from the 
scene of that butchery. How can it ever be sus¬ 
pected that a brute beast should have done the 
deed? The police are at fault; they have failed 
to procure the slightest clew. Should they even 
trace the animal, it would be impossible to prove 
me cognisant of the murder, or to implicate me 
in guilt on account of that cognisance. Above 
all, I am known. The advertiser designates me 
as the possessor of the beast. I am not sure to 
what limit his knowledge may extend. Should I 
avoid claiming a property so of great value, which 
it is known that I possess, I will render the ani¬ 
mal, at least, liable to suspicion. It is not my 
policy to attract attention either to myself or to 
the beast. I will answer the advertisement, get 
the Orang-Outang, and keep it close until this 
matter has blown over.’" 

At this moment we heard a step upon the 
stairs. 

"Be ready,” said Dupin, "with your pistols, 
but neither use them nor show them until at a 
signal from myself.” 

The front door of the house had been left open, 
and the visitor had entered, without ringing, 
and advanced several steps upon the staircase. 

45 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently 
we heard him descending. Dupin was moving 
quickly to the door, when we again heard him 
coming up. He did not turn back a second 
time, but stepped up with decision, and rapped 
at the door of our chamber. 

M Come in,” said Dupin, in a cheerful and 
hearty tone. 

A man entered. He was a sailor, evidently— 
a tall, stout, and muscular-looking person, with 
a certain dare-devil expression of countenance, 
not altogether unprepossessing. His face, 
greatly sunburnt, was more than half hidden by 
whisker and mustachio. He had with him a huge 
oaken cudgel, but appeared to be otherwise un¬ 
armed. He bowed awkwardly, and bade us 
“good-evening,” in French accents, which, 
although somewhat Neuchatelish, were still 
sufficiently indicative of a Parisian origin. 

“Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin. “I sup¬ 
pose you have called about the Orang-Outang. 
Upon my word, I almost envy you the possession 
of him; a remarkably fine, and no doubt a very 
valuable animal. How old do you suppose him 
to be?” 

The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of 
a man relieved of some intolerable burden, and 
then replied, in an assured tone: 

“I have no way of telling—but he can’t be 
more than four or five years old. Have you got 
him here?” 

“Oh, no; we had no conveniences for keeping 
46 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


him here. He is at a livery stable in the Rue 
Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the 
morning. Of course, you are prepared to iden¬ 
tify the property?” 

“To be sure I am, sir.” 

“ I shall be sorry to part with him,” said Dupin. 

“I don’t mean that you should be at all this 
trouble for nothing, sir,” said the man. “Couldn’t 
expect it. Am very willing to pay a reward for 
the finding of the animal—that is to say, any¬ 
thing in reason.” 

“Well,” replied my friend, “that is all very 
fair, to be sure. Let me think!—what should I 
have? Oh! I will tell you. My reward shall be 
this: You shall give me all the information in 
your power about those murders in the Rue 
Morgue.” 

Dupin said the last words in a very low tone, 
and very quietly. Just as quietly, too, he walked 
toward the door, locked it, and put the key in his 
pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom 
and placed it, without the least flurry, upon the 
table. 

The sailor’s face flushed up as if he were strug¬ 
gling with suffocation. He started to his feet, 
and grasped his cudgel; but the next moment 
he fell back into his seat, trembling violently, and 
with the countenance of death itself. He spoke 
not a word. I pitied him from the bottom of 
my heart. 

“My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind tone, “you 
are alarming yourself unnecessarily—you are 


/ 


47 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


indeed. We mean you no harm whatever. I 
pledge you the honour of a gentleman, and of a 
Frenchman, that we intend you no injury. I 
perfectly well know that you are innocent of the 
atrocities in the Rue Morgue. It will not do, 
however, to deny that you are in some measure 
implicated in them. From what I have already 
said, you must know that I have had means of 
information about this matter—means of which 
you could never have dreamed. Now the thing 
stands thus. You have done nothing which you 
could have avoided—nothing, certainly, which 
renders you culpable. You were not even guilty 
of robbery, when you might have robbed with 
impunity. You have nothing to conceal. You 
have no reason for concealment. On the other 
hand, you are bound by every principle of honour 
to confess all you know. An innocent man is 
now imprisoned, charged with that crime of 
which you can point out the perpetrator.” 

The sailor had recovered his presence of mind 
in a great measure, while Dupin uttered these 
words; but his original boldness of bearing was 
all gone. 

“So help me God,” said he, after a brief pause, 
“I will tell you all I know about this affair; but 
I do not expect you to believe one-half I say— 
I would be a fool indeed if I did. Still, I ant 
innocent, and I will make a clean breast if I die 
for it.” 

What he stated was, in substance, this: He had 
lately made a voyage to the Indian Archipelago. 

48 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


A party, of which he formed one, landed at 
Borneo, and passed into the interior on an excur¬ 
sion of pleasure. Himself and a companion had 
captured the Orang-Outang. This companion 
dying, the animal fell into his own exclusive pos¬ 
session. After great trouble, occasioned by the 
intractable ferocity of his captive during the 
home voyage, he at length succeeded in lodging it 
safely at his own residence at Paris, where, not to 
attract toward himself the unpleasant curiosity 
of his neighbours, he kept it carefully secluded, 
until such time as it should recover from a wound 
in the foot, received from a splinter on board ship. 
His ultimate design was to sell it. 

Returning home from some sailors’ frolic on 
the night, or rather in the morning, of the mur¬ 
der, he found the beast occupying his own bed¬ 
room, into which it had broken from a closet 
adjoining, where it had been, as was thought, 
securely confined. Razor in hand, and fully 
lathered, it was sitting before a looking-glass, at¬ 
tempting the operation of shaving, in which it 
had no doubt previously watched its master 
through the keyhole of the closet. Terrified at 
the sight of so dangerous a weapon in the posses¬ 
sion of an animal so ferocious, and so well able 
to use it, the man for some moments was at a loss 
what to do. He had been accustomed, how¬ 
ever, to quiet the creature, even in its fiercest 
moods, by the use of a whip, and to this he now 
resorted. Upon sight of it, the Orang-Outang 
sprang at once through the door of the chamber, 


49 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


down the stairs, and thence, through a window, 
unfortunately open, into the street. 

The Frenchman followed in despair; the ape, 
razor still in hand, occasionally stopping to look 
back and gesticulating at its pursuer, until the 
latter had nearly come up with it. It then again 
made off. In this manner the chase continued 
for a long time. The streets were profoundly 
quiet, as it was nearly three o’clock in the morn¬ 
ing. In passing down an alley in the rear of the 
Rue Morgue, the fugitive’s attention was ar¬ 
rested by a light gleaming from the open window 
of Madame L’Espanaye’s chamber, in the fourth 
story of her house. Rushing to the building, it 
perceived the lightning-rod, clambered up with 
inconceivable agility, grasped the shutter, which 
was thrown fully back against the wall, and, by 
its means, swung itself directly upon the head- 
board of the bed. The whole feat did not occupy 
a minute. The shutter was kicked open again 
by the Orang-Outang as it entered the room. 

The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced 
and perplexed. He had strong hopes of now 
recapturing the brute, as it could scarcely escape 
from the trap into which it had ventured, except 
by the rod, where it might be intercepted as it 
came down. On the other hand, there was much 
cause for anxiety as to what it might do in the 
house. This latter reflection urged the man still to 
follow the fugitive. A lightning-rod is ascended 
without difficulty, especially by a sailor; but, 
when he had arrived as high as the window, which 
5o 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


lay far to his left, his career was stopped; the 
most that he could accomplish was to reach over 
so as to obtain a glimpse of the interior of the 
room. At this glimpse he nearly fell from his 
hold through excess of horror. Now it was that 
those hideous shrieks arose upon the night, 
which had startled from slumber the inmates of 
the Rue Morgue. Madame L’Espanaye and her 
daughter, habited in their night-clothes, had 
apparently been occupied in arranging some 
papers in the iron chest already mentioned, 
which had been wheeled into the middle of the 
room. It was open, and its contents lay beside 
it on the floor. The victims must have been sit¬ 
ting with their backs toward the window; and, 
from the time elapsing between the ingress of the 
beast and the screams, it seems probable that it 
was not immediately perceived. The flapping-to 
of the shutter would naturally have been attrib¬ 
uted to the wind. 

As the sailor looked in, the gigantic animal had 
seized Madame L’Espanaye by the hair (which 
was loose, as she had been combing it), and was 
flourishing the razor about her face, in imita¬ 
tion of the motions of a barber. The daughter 
lay prostrate and motionless; she had swooned. 
The screams and struggles of the old lady (during 
which her hair was torn from her head) had the 
effect of changing the probably pacific purposes 
of the Orang-Outang into those of wrath. With 
one determined sweep of its muscular arm, it 
nearly severed her head from her body. The 
5i 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


sight of blood inflamed its anger into frenzy. 
Gnashing its teeth, and flashing fire from its eyes, 
it flew upon the body of the girl, and embedded 
its fearful talons in her throat, retaining its grasp 
until she expired. Its wandering and wild 
glances fell at this moment upon the head of the 
bed, over which the face of its master, rigid with 
horror, was just discernible. The fury of the 
beast, who no doubt bore still in mind the dreaded 
whip, was instantly converted into fear. Con¬ 
scious of having deserved punishment, it seemed 
desirous of concealing its bloody deeds, and 
skipped about the chamber in an agony of nerv¬ 
ous agitation; throwing down and breaking the 
furniture as it moved, and dragging the bed from 
the bedstead. In conclusion, it seized first the 
corpse of the daughter, and thrust it up the chim¬ 
ney, as it was found; then that of the old lady, 
which it immediately hurled through the window 
headlong. 

As the ape approached the casement with its 
mutilated burden, the sailor shrank aghast to the 
rod, and, rather gliding than clambering down it, 
hurried at once home—dreading the consequences 
of the butchery, and gladly abandoning, in his 
terror, all solicitude about the fate of the Orang- 
Outang. The words heard by the party upon 
the staircase were the Frenchman’s exclamation 
of horror and affright, commingled with the 
fiendish jabberings of the brute. 

I have scarcely anything to add. The Orang- 
Outang must have escaped from the chamber by 
52 


The Murders in the Rue Morgue 


the rod, just before the breaking of the door. It 
must have closed the window as it passed through 
it. It was subsequently caught by the owner 
himself, who obtained for it a very large sum at 
the Jardin des Plantes. Le Bon was instantly 
released, upon our narration of the circumstances 
(with some comments from Dupin) at the Bureau 
of the Prefect of Police. This functionary, how¬ 
ever well disposed to my friend, could not alto¬ 
gether conceal his chagrin at the turn which 
affairs had taken, and was fain to indulge in a 
sarcasm or two, about the propriety of every per¬ 
son’s minding his own business. 

“Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had not 
thought it necessary to reply. “Let him dis¬ 
course ; it will ease his conscience. I am satisfied 
with having defeated him in his own castle. 
Nevertheless, that he failed in the solution of 
this mystery is by no means that matter for 
wonder which he supposes it; for, in truth, our 
friend the Prefect is somewhat too cunning to be 
profound. In his wisdom is no stamen. It is all 
head and no body, like the pictures of the God¬ 
dess Laverna—or, at best, all head and shoulders, 
like a codfish. But he is a good creature, after 
all. I like him especially for one master-stroke 
of cant, by which he has attained his reputation 
for ingenuity. I mean the way he has l de nier ce 
qu'est et d'expliquer ce que n'est pas.’ ” 


53 


THE POPE’S MULE 


BY 

Alphonse Daudet 

Of all the pleasant sayings, proverbs, or 
adages which our Proven9al peasants weave 
into their discourse, I know none more pictu¬ 
resque or curious than this. In all the country 
about my mill, fifteen leagues in every direc¬ 
tion, when people speak of a spiteful, vindictive 
man, they say, “Look out for that fellow! He 
is like the Pope’s mule, that saved up a kick 
for seven years.” 

For a long time, I sought the origin of this 
proverb. What could it be—this papal mule 
and the kick saved up the length of seven years ? 
No one here has been able to give me any infor¬ 
mation on this subject, not even Francet Mamai, 
my piper, although he has all the legends of 
Provence at his fingers’ ends. Francet agrees 
with me in thinking that, at the bottom of it all, 
there must be some ancient chronicle of the 
Avignon country; yet he has heard it mentioned 
nowhere but in the proverb. “You will find 
that only in the grasshoppers’ library,” said the 
, old piper to me, laughing. The idea seemed a 
good one, and, as the grasshoppers’ library is at 


54 


The Pope’s Mule 

my door, I went to shut myself up in it for a 
week. 

A marvellous library is this, admirably ar¬ 
ranged, open to poets day and night, and offi¬ 
cered by little librarians with cymbals who play 
for you at all times. There I passed some de¬ 
lightful days, and after a week of research— 
on my back—I ended by discovering what I 
wished, the story, namely, of the mule and of 
the famous kick which it saved up for seven 
years. Although a trifle innocent, the story 
is a pretty one, and I shall try to tell 
it you even as I read it yesterday morning 
in a sky-coloured manuscript, which was fra¬ 
grant with lavender and sewn together with 
gossamer. 

Any one who has not seen the Avignon of the 
Popes has seen nothing. Never was there a 
city like it for gaiety, for life, for animation, for 
a continual succession of feasts. From morn¬ 
ing to night, there were processions, pilgrimages; 
the streets were strewn with flowers and hung 
with long lists; there were cardinals arriving 
by the Rhone on tapestried galleys with flying 
banners, papal soldiers who sang in Latin in the 
public squares, the rattles of mendicant friars; 
then, there were humming houses clustered 
against the grand papal palace as bees pressing 
about their hive. In them ran the constant 
buzz of the ribbon looms, the flying shuttles 
weaving golden chasubles, the little hammers 
of the sculptors of vases, the harmonical tables 

55 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


being attuned at the musical instrument mak¬ 
ers, the canticles of the weavers. Accompany¬ 
ing all was the peal of chimes, and the far-off 
tinkle of tambourines down beside the river. 
For in our country, when the people are glad, 
they will ever be dancing, and because, in those 
days, the streets of the town were too narrow 
for the farandole, fifes and tambourines were 
stationed on the bridge of Avignon, in the fresh 
breezes of the Rhone, and night and day there 
was dancing, dancing, dancing! It was a happy 
time, and a happy town. There were halberds 
which harmed no one; the state-prisons were 
used to cool wine in; there was neither want 
nor war. Thus it was that the Popes ruled 
their people, and that is why their people 
regretted them so deeply. 

There was one above all, a good old gentle¬ 
man named Boniface. How many tears, alas, 
were shed in Avignon when he died! He was 
a lovable and charming prince. He would 
smile down at you so kindly from his mule, and 
if you happened to meet him—it mattered not 
whether you were a poor little grower of madder 
or the grand provost of the town—he gave you 
his blessing so courteously! A genuine Yvetot 
Pope, but of an Yvetot in Provence, with some¬ 
thing delicate in his laughter, a sprig of sweet 
marjoram on his cap, and not the least Jeanne- 
ton. The only Jeanneton one ever knew him 
to have was the good father’s vineyard—a lit¬ 
tle vineyard which he himself had planted, 

5 6 


The Pope’s Mule 


three miles from Avignon, amid the myrtles of 
Chateauneuf. 

Every Sunday when he came from vespers, 
the worthy man would go to hold his court there; 
and when seated in the goodly sun, his mule 
near him, his cardinals stretched out around 
him at the foot of the vines, then he had a flagon 
of wine opened—a flagon of that exquisite, ruby- 
coloured wine called, ever since, Chateau-Neuf 
of the Popes—and he drank it by little sips, and 
regarded his vineyard with a tender look. Then, 
when the bottle was empty and the day at its 
setting, he returned cheerfully to the city, fol¬ 
lowed by his whole chapter; and, after passing 
the bridge of Avignon in the midst of drummers 
and farandoles, his mule, set going by the music, 
changed its gait to a little jumping trot, while 
the Pope himself kept time with the step of the 
dance by means of his cap, so that his cardinals 
were shocked. But the people said, “What a 
kind master! What a good Pope!” 

Now the thing which this amiable Pope loved 
most in the world next to his vineyard 
was his mule. The dear old gentleman doted 
on this beast. Every night, before going to 
bed, he went to see if its stable had been 
tightly locked, if nothing was lacking in its 
manger, and he would never rise from the table 
without having prepared under his own eyes a 
large bowl of French wine well sweetened and 
spiced, which he himself carried out to the mule, 
in spite of the remarks of his cardinals. But 

57 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


the animal, it must be noted, was well worth 
the trouble: a beautiful black she-mule, speckled 
with red, sure of foot, glossy of skin, broad and 
full of back, proudly bearing her small neat 
head, hung with tassels, with bows, with little 
silver bells. She was, moreover, gentle as an 
angel, having an innocent eye, and two long 
waving ears which gave her the character of 
gentleness. All Avignon respected her, and 
when she went through the streets there was 
no courtesy which she did not receive. And 
that was because every one knew this to be the 
surest way of gaining favour at court, and that, 
for all her innocent air, the Pope’s mule had 
raised many a one to fortune—as the story of 
Tistet Vedene and his wonderful adventure will 
prove. 

This Tistet Vedene began life as a saucy good- 
for-nothing whom his father Guy Vedene, the 
carver in gold, was obliged to drive from his house, 
because he refused to work and demoralized 
the apprentices. For six months he could be 
seen dangling his jacket over all the gutters of 
Avignon, especially in the neighbourhood of the 
papal palace; and that was because for a long 
time the rascal had his eye on the Pope’s mule, 
and you will see what a villainous scheme it was. 
One day, when his Holiness was taking a lonely 
walk on the ramparts with his beast, Tistet 
V£d£ne came up to him, and, clasping his hands 
together, and with his eyes full of admiration, 
said: “Heavens, Holy Father, what a fine mule 
58 


The Pope’s Mule 


you have there! Do let me look at it a little. 
Ah, dear Pope, what a lovely mule! The Em¬ 
peror of Germany has not its equal.” And then 
he patted it, and spoke sweetly to it as though 
it had been a young damsel: “Come here, my 
jewel, my treasure, my pearl!” And the good 
Pope, moved thereat, said to himself: ‘‘What 
a good little fellow! How gently he treats my 
mule!” And do you know what happened the 
next day? Tistet V£d£ne exchanged his old 
yellow jacket for a beautiful laced one, a cloak 
of violet silk, and buckled shoes, and he en¬ 
tered into the Pope’s service, where, before that, 
no one had ever been received but the sons of 
the nobility and the nephews of cardinals. 
There is scheming for you! But Tistet did not 
stop at that. 

Once in the service of the Pope, the rascal 
continued the game in which he had succeeded 
so well. Insolent toward every one, he was all 
kindness and attention to the mule, and one was 
ever meeting him in the courts of the palace 
with a handful of oats or a bundle of French 
grass whose pink clusters he shook gently. He 
would glance up at the Holy Father’s balcony 
with a look that seemed to say, ‘‘For whom do 
you think this is?” So things went on until 
finally the good Pope, who felt himself growing 
old, ended by leaving to him the duty of watch¬ 
ing over the stable, and of taking the mule her 
bowl of French wine—all of which was no laugh¬ 
ing matter to the cardinals. 

59 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Nor to the mule either. For now, at her 
hour for drinking, she always saw five or 
six little clerics come to her who hid them¬ 
selves in the straw with their cloaks and 
their laces. Then presently a lovely warm 
odour of caramel and of spices would fill the 
stable, and Tistet Vedene appeared carefully 
balancing the bowl of French wine. Then it 
was that the poor beast’s martyrdom com¬ 
menced. 

This perfumed wine which she loved so well, 
which kept her warm, which gave her wings— 
this wine they had the cruelty to bring to her 
manger, to let her sniff at, and then, when her 
nostrils were full of the fragrance—it was gone. 
All the beautiful, rosy, fiery fluid passed down 
the throats of these wretches. If they had only 
stopped at stealing her wine. But these little 
clerics were veritable imps when they had drunk 
it! One pulled her ears, another her tail, Qui- 
quet mounted on her back, Beluguet tried his 
cap on her, and not a one of them dreamed of 
the fact that, with one good kick, the worthy 
beast could have sent them beyond the polar 
star. But no; it is not in vain that one is 
the Pope’s mule, the mule of blessings and in¬ 
dulgences. The boys had their trouble for 
nothing; she did not get angry, and it was only 
against Tistet Vedene that she bore malice. 
As for this fellow, indeed, when she felt him be¬ 
hind her, her hoof itched, and that for good rea¬ 
sons. This scamp of a Tistet played her the 
60 


The Pope’s Mule 


most villainous tricks, invented the most cruel 
devices, after he had been drinking. 

One day he took it into his head to make her 
ascend into the belfry with him, high, high up, 
to the very top of the palace. And it is no fairy 
tale that I tell you, for two hundred thousand 
people of Provence saw it. You can imagine 
the terror of this poor mule when, after having 
crawled blindly for a whole hour like a snail 
up a staircase, and having crept up goodness 
knows how many steps, she found herself sud¬ 
denly on a glittering platform, and saw, a thou¬ 
sand feet beneath her, a fantastic Avignon: the 
barracks at the market-place no larger than 
hazelnuts, the papal soldiers before their bar¬ 
racks like red ants, and farther down, over a 
silver thread, a tiny bridge on which the peo¬ 
ple were still dancing. Alas for the poor beast! 
how terrified she was! Every window-pane 
in the palace trembled at the loud venting of 
her distress. 

“What is the matter with her? What are 
they doing to her?” cried the good Pope, and 
hastened upon the balcony. 

Tistet Vedene was already in the court¬ 
yard, pretending to weep and tear out his 
hair: “Ah, Holy Father, what is the mat¬ 
ter! Why, your mule—Heavens, what will be¬ 
come of us!—your mule has gone up into the 
belfry.” 

“All alone?” 

“Yes, Holy Father, quite alone. Stay, look 
61 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


up there. Do you see the tips of her two ears? 
They look like two swallows!" 

"Mercy on us,” said the poor Pope when he 
raised his eyes, "has she gone mad? She will 
kill herself. Will you come down, you wretch!” 

Forsooth, she would have asked for nothing 
better than to come down! But how? The 
staircase was not to be thought of: one may 
get up a thing of that kind, but as for coming 
down, one might break one’s legs a hundred 
times. The poor mule was disconsolate, and, 
while prowling about the platform with her 
great eyes full of fear, she thought of Tistet 
V6dene: "Ah, villain, if I escape from this— 
what a kick to-morrow morning! ” The thought 
of that kick gave her a little heart and strength; 
without it, she would never have been able to 
keep up. 

At last they succeeded in hauling her down 
from there, but it was no small matter. They 
had to use a barrow, and ropes, and a derrick. 
And you may imagine what a humiliation it 
was for that poor papal mule to see herself hang¬ 
ing at that height, afloat with her legs in the 
empty air like a cockchafer at the end of a string! 
And all Avignon staring at her! 

The unhappy beast did not sleep that night. 
It seemed to her as if she were forever turning 
on that accursed platform, with the laughter of 
the whole town below. Then she thought of 
that infamous Tistet V6d&ne, and of that mighty 
kick! As far as Pampeluna, people should see 
62 


The Pope’s Mule 


the dust it would raise. But, while this hand¬ 
some reception was being prepared for him in 
the stable, do you know what Tistet Ved£ne 
did? Singing, he sailed down the Rhone on a 
papal galley, and went to the court of Naples 
with a crowd of young nobles whom the city 
sent annually to Queen Joan, to be trained in 
diplomacy and fine manners. Tistet was not 
of noble birth, but the Pope was determined to 
reward him for the care he had bestowed on his 
mule, and especially for the activity which he 
had displayed on the day of the relief expe¬ 
dition. 

So it was the mule who was disappointed the 
next day. “Ah, the scamp, he suspected some¬ 
thing!” she thought, furiously shaking her little 
bells. “But it matters not; go, rascal; you 
will find your kick waiting for you when you 
return. I’ll keep it for you.” And she did. 

After the departure of Tistet, the Pope’s mule 
recovered her peace, and resumed the even tenor 
of her former way. Neither Quiquet nor 
Beluguet visited the stable. The happy days of 
French wine had returned, and with them good 
humour, long naps, and the little measure trod 
when she passed the bridge of Avignon. For 
all that, since her adventure she was always 
shown a slight coldness in the town. There 
were whispers along the road; the old people 
shook their heads, the children laughed and 
pointed out the belfry to each other. The good 
Pope himself had no longer the same confidence 

*3 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


in his friend; and when of a Sunday, going home 
from his vineyard, he allowed himself to nod a 
little on her back, the thought would always 
obtrude itself: “What if I were to wake up and 
find myself in the belfry?” The mule observed 
all this, and suffered under it in silence. Only, 
if any one uttered the name Tistet Vedene in 
her presence, her long ears trembled, and, with 
a little smile, she sharpened the iron of her 
shoes on the pavement. 

Thus seven years passed. Then, at the end 
of these years, Tistet Vedene returned from the 
court of Naples. His time there was not yet 
quite over; but he had learned that the Pope’s 
first mustard-maker had just died suddenly at 
Avignon, and, as the place seemed a good one 
to him, he had arrived in hot haste in order to 
present himself as an applicant for it. 

Now, when this schemer entered the great 
hall of the palace, the Holy Father could scarcely 
recognise him, so much had he grown and taken 
on flesh. Then, too, the good Pope had not 
grown younger either, and did not see well with¬ 
out his spectacles. Tistet was unabashed. 

“How! Holy Father, you do not recognise 
me? It is I, Tistet V6dene!” 

“Vedene?” 

“Surely, you must know. The same who 
used to take the French wine to your mule.” 

“Ah, yes—yes—I remember. A good little 
fellow was that Tistet Vedene. And now, what 
does he desire of us?” 


64 


The Pope’s Mule 


“Oh, such a little thing, Holy Father! I have 
come to ask—But your mule, to be sure, have 
you got her still ? And is she well ?—Ah, so much 
the better!—Yes, I came to ask for the place 
of the first mustard-maker, who has just died.” 

“ You, first mustard-maker! But you are too 
young. How old are you?” 

“Twenty years and two months, illustrious 
Pontiff; exactly five years older than your 
mule. That sweet animal! That mule, how I 
used to love her—and how I longed for her in 
Italy! Will you not let me see her?” 

“Yes, my child, you shall see her,” said the 
good Pope with emotion, “and, since you love 
the good beast so much, I would not have you 
live at a distance from her. From this day, I 
attach you to my person as first mustard-maker. 
My cardinals will cry out against it, but so much 
the worse for them; I’m used to that. To¬ 
morrow when we come from vespers, meet us, 
and we will invest you with the insignia of your 
office in the presence of our chapter, and then 
I will take you to see the mule, and you will go 
to the vineyard with the two of us.” 

Tistet Vedene was serenely happy when he 
came out of the great hall, and I need not tell 
you with what impatience he awaited the cere¬ 
mony of the morrow. But there was some one 
in the palace who was even happier and more 
impatient—and that was the mule. From the 
moment of V6dene’s return, to the vesper serv¬ 
ice of the next day, that terrible beast did not 

65 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


cease stuffing herself with straw and aiming 
at the wall with the hoofs of her hind legs. She, 
too, was preparing for the ceremony. 

And so on the next day, when vespers were 
said, Tistet Vedene made his entry into the court 
of the papal palace. All the upper clergy were 
there, the cardinals in red robes, the devil’s 
advocate in black velvet, the abbots of the con¬ 
vents in their little mitres, the churchwardens 
of Saint Agricola. And the lower clergy were 
there too, the soldiers of the Pope in full uni¬ 
form, the three penitential brotherhoods, the 
hermits of Mount Ventoux with their fierce 
countenances, the little cleric who walks behind 
and carries the bell, the flagellant brothers, bare 
to the girdle, the sacristans gay in their judicial 
robes, everybody, everybody, down to the dis¬ 
pensers of holy water, and those who light and 
extinguish the tapers: no one was lacking. 
Ah, that was a beautiful ordination! Chimes, 
sunshine, and music, and ever the sound of those 
mad tambourines that led the dance, down be¬ 
low on the bridge of Avignon. 

When V6dene appeared in the midst of the 
assembly his imposing deportment and elegant 
air raised a general murmur of admiration. He 
was a magnificent Provencal, of the fair type, 
with long hair curled at the end, and a little 
coquettish beard which seemed made of the 
shavings of precious metal fallen under the 
graving-tool of his father, the carver in gold. 
Indeed, the report went about that the fingers 
66 


The Pope's Mule 


of Queen Joan had sometimes played in this 
yellow beard. Master V6dene had, in fact, the 
proud bearing and the absent look of men 
whom queens have loved. On that day he 
had, in honour of his nation, exchanged his 
Neapolitan garb for a jacket tipped with red 
in the Provengal style, and on his cap quivered 
a large ibis feather. 

As soon as he entered, the first mustard- 
maker bowed with a gallant air, and directed 
his steps to the high platform where the Pope 
was waiting to invest him with the insignia of 
his office: the ladle of yellow box-wood and the 
saffron cloak. The mule stood at the bottom 
of the stairs, harnessed, ready to start. When 
he passed near her, Tistet Vedene smiled pleas¬ 
antly, and stopped to give her two or three 
friendly little pats on the back, while he glanced 
out of the comer of his eye to see if the Pope 
was looking. The situation was complete. The 
mule made ready. “There, you are caught, 
rascal! Seven years have I saved it for you!” 
And she kicked him a kick, a kick so terrible 
that as far as Pampeluna people saw the dust 
that it raised: a whirl of blond dust from which 
fluttered out an ibis feather—all that remained 
of the unhappy Tistet Vedene. 

The kicks of mules are not usually so appal¬ 
ling; but then, this was a papal mule, and re¬ 
member that she had saved it up for seven 
years. There is no better instance of clerical 
spite on record. 


67 


WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY* 


BY 

Rudyard Kipling 

I 


“But if it be a girl?” 

“Lord of my life, it cannot be! I have 
prayed for so many nights, and sent gifts to 
Sheikh Badl’s shrine so often, that I know God 
will give us a son—a man-child that shall 
grow into a man. Think of this and be glad. 
My mother shall be his mother till I can take 
him again, and the mullah of the Pattan Mosque 
shall cast his nativity—God send he be bom in 
an auspicious hour!—and then, and then thou 
wilt never weary of me, thy slave." 

“Since when hast thou been a slave, my 
queen?” 

“Since the beginning—till this mercy came 
to me. How could I be sure of thy love when 
I knew that I had been bought with silver?” 

“Nay, that was the dowry. I paid it to thy 
mother.” 

“And she has buried it, and sits upon it all day 
long like a hen. What talk is yours of dowry? 

* Copyright, 1891, by Macmillan and Company. Copy¬ 
right, 1899, by Rudyard Kipling. 

6 $ 


Without Benefit of Clergy 


I was bought as though I had been a Lucknow 
dancing-girl instead of a child.” 

‘‘Art thou sorry for the sale?” 

‘‘I have sorrowed; but to-day I am glad. 
Thou wilt never cease to love me now? Answer, 
my king.” 

‘‘Never—never. No.” 

‘‘Not even though the mem-log —the white 
women of thy own blood—love thee ? And 
remember, I have watched them driving in the 
evening; they are very fair.” 

‘‘I have seen fire-balloons by the hundred, I 
have seen the moon, and—then I saw no more 
fire-balloons.” 

Ameera clapped her hands and laughed. 
“Very good talk,” she said. Then, with an 
assumption of great stateliness: “It is enough. 
Thou hast permission to depart—if thou wilt.” 

The man did not move. He was sitting on a 
low red-lacquered couch in a room furnished only 
with a blue-and-white floor-cloth, some rugs, and 
a very complete collection of native cushions. 
At his feet sat a woman of sixteen, and she was 
all but all the world in his eyes. By every rule 
and law she should have been otherwise, for he 
was an Englishman and she a Mussulman’s 
daughter, bought two years before from her 
mother, who, being left without money, would 
have sold Ameera, shrieking, to the Prince of 
Darkness, if the price had been sufficient. 

It was a contract entered into with a light 
heart. But even before the girl had reached her 
69 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


bloom she came to fill the greater portion of 
John Holden’s life. For her and the withered 
hag her mother he had taken a little house over¬ 
looking the great red-walled city, and found, 
when the marigolds had sprung up by the well 
in the courtyard, and Ameera had established 
herself according to her own ideas of comfort, 
and her mother had ceased grumbling at the 
inadequacy of the cooking-places, the distance 
from the daily market, and matters of house¬ 
keeping in general, that the house was to him his 
home. Any one could enter his bachelor’s 
bungalow by day or night, and the life that he 
led there was an unlovely one. In the house in 
the city his feet only could pass beyond the 
outer courtyard to the women’s rooms; and 
when the big wooden gate was bolted behind him 
he was king in his own territory, with Ameera for 
queen. And there was going to be added to this 
kingdom a third person, whose arrival Holden 
felt inclined to resent. It interfered with his 
perfect happiness. It disarranged the orderly 
peace of the house that was his own. But Ameera 
Was wild with delight at the thought of it, and 
her mother not less so. The love of a man, and 
particularly a white man, was at the best an 
inconstant affair, but it might, both women 
argued, be held fast by a baby’s hands. “And 
v then,” Ameera would always say-—-“then he 
will never care for the white mem-log. I hate 
them all—I hate them all!’’ 

“He will go back to his own people in time,” 
70 


Without Benefit of Clergy 


said the mother, “but, by the blessing of God, 
that time is yet afar off.” 

Holden sat silent on the couch, thinking of 
the future, and his thoughts were not pleasant. 
The drawbacks of a double life are manifold. 
The government, with singular care, had ordered 
him out of the station for a'fortnight on special 
duty, in the place of a man who was watching 
by the bedside of a sick wife. The Verbal 
notification of the transfer had been edged 
by a cheerful remark that Holden ought to 
think himself lucKy in being a bachelor and 
a freeman. He came to break the news to 
Ameefa. 

“It is not good,” she said, slowly, “but it is 
not all bad. There is my mother here, and no 
harm will come to me—unless, indeed, I die of 
pure joy. Go thou to thy work, and think no 
troublesome thoughts. When the days are 
done, I believe, nay, I am sure. And—and 
then I shall lay him in thy arms, and thou 
wilt love me forever. The train goes to-night—- 
at midnight, is it not? Go now, and do not 
let thy heart be heavy by Cause of me. But 
thou wilt not delay in returning! Thou wilt 
not stay on the road to talk to the bold white 
mem-log! Come back to me swiftly, my life!” 

As he left the courtyard to reach his horse 
that was tethered to the gate-post, Holden 
spoke to the white-haired old watchman who 
guarded the house, and bid him under certain 
contingencies dispatch the filled-up telegraph 


7i 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


form that Holden gave him. It was all that 
could be done, and, with the sensations of a man 
who has attended his own funeral, Holden went 
away by the night mail to his exile. Every 
hour of the day he dreaded the arrival of the 
telegram, and every hour of the night he pic¬ 
tured to himself the death of Ameera. In 
consequence, his work for the state was not 
of first-rate quality, nor was his temper toward 
his colleagues of the most amiable. The fort¬ 
night ended without a sign from his home, and, 
torn to pieces by his anxieties, Holden returned 
to be swallowed up for two precious hours by 
a dinner at the club, wherein he heard, as a man 
hears in a swoon, voices telling him how execra¬ 
bly he had performed the other man’s duties, and 
how he had endeared himself to all his associates. 
Then he fled on horseback through the night 
with his heart in his mouth. There was no 
answer at first to his blows on the gate, and he 
had just wheeled his horse round to kick it in, 
when Pir Khan appeared with a lantern and 
held his stirrup. 

“Has aught occurred?” said Holden. 

“The news does not come from my mouth, 

Protector of the Poor, but-” He held out his 

shaking hand, as befitted the bearer of good 
news who is entitled to a reward. 

Holden hurried through the courtyard. A 
light burned in the upper room. His horse 
neighed in the gateway, and he heard a pin¬ 
pointed wail that sent all the blood into the 
72 


Without Benefit of Clergy 


apple of his throat. It was a new voice, but it 
did not prove that Ameera was alive. 

“Who is there?” he called up the narrow brick 
staircase. 

There was a cry of delight from Ameera, and 
then the voice of her mother, tremulous with 
old age and pride: “We be two women, and— 
the—man—thy son.” 

On the threshold of the room Holden stepped 
on a naked dagger that was laid there to avert ill- 
luck, and it broke at the hilt under his impatient 
heel. 

“God is great!” cooed Ameera in the half- 
light. “Thou hast taken his misfortunes on 
thy head.” 

“Ay, but how is it with thee, life of my life? 
Old woman, how is it with her?” 

“She has forgotten her sufferings for joy that 
the child is bom. There is no harm; but 
speak softly,” said the mother. 

“It only needed thy presence to make me all 
well,” said Ameera. “My king, thou hast been 
very long away. What gifts hast thou for 
me? Ah! ah! It is I that bring gifts this 
time. Look, my life, look! Was there ever 
such a babe? Nay, I am too weak even to 
clear my arm from him.” 

“Rest, then, and do not talk. I am here, 
bachheri” [little woman]. 

“Well said, for there is a bond and a heel-rope 
[peecharee] between us now that nothing can 
break. Look—canst thou see in this light? 

73 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


He is without spot or blemish. Never Was 
such a man-child. Ya illah! he shall be a 
pundit — no, a trooper of the queen. And, 
my life, dost thou love me as well as ever, 
though I am faint and sick and worn ? Answer 
truly.” 

‘‘Yea. I love as I have loved, with all my 
soul. Lie still, pearl, and rest.” 

‘‘Then do not go. Sit by my side here—so. 
Mother, the lord of this house needs a cushion. 
Bring it.” There was an almost imperceptible 
movement on the part of the new life that lay 
in the hollow of Ameera’s arm. ‘‘ Ako /” she 
said, her voice breaking with love. ‘‘The babe 
is a champion from his birth. He is kicking 
me in the side with mighty kicks. Was there 
ever such a babe? And he is ours to us—thine 
and mine. Put thy hand on his head, but 
carefully, for he is very young, and men are 
unskilled in such matters.” 

Very cautiously Holden touched with the 
tips of his fingers the downy head. 

‘‘He is of the Faith,” said Ameera; ‘‘for, 
lying here in the night-watches, I whispered the 
Call to Prayer and the Profession of Faith into 
his ears. And it is most marvellous that he 
was born upon a Friday, as I was born. Be 
careful of him, my life; but he can almost grip 
with his hands.” 

Holden found one helpless little hand that 
closed feebly on his finger. And the clutch ran 
through his limbs till it settled about his heart. 


74 


Without Benefit of Clergy 


Till then his sole thought had been for Ameera. 
He began to realise that there was some one 
else in the world, but he could not feel that it 
was a veritable son with a soul. He sat down 
to think, and Ameera dozed lightly. 

“Get hence, sahib,” said her mother, under 
her breath. “It is not good that she should 
find you here on waking. She must be still.” 

“I go,” said Holden, submissively. “Here 
be rupees. See that my baba gets fat and finds 
all that he needs.” 

The chink of the silver roused Ameera. “I 
am his mother, and no hireling,” she said, 
weakly. “Shall I look to him more or less for 
the sake of money? Mother, give it back. I 
have borne my lord a son.” 

The deep sleep of weakness came upon her 
almost before the sentence was completed. 
Holden went down to the courtyard very softly, 
with his heart at ease. Pir Khan, the old 
watchman, was chuckling with delight. 

“This house is now complete,” he said, and 
without further comment thrust into Holden’s 
hands the hilt of a saber worn many years ago, 
when Pir Khan served the queen in the police. 
The bleat of a tethered goat came from the 
well-curb. 

“There be two,” said Pir Khan—“two goats 
of the best. I bought them, and they cost much 
money; and since there is no birth-party as¬ 
sembled, their flesh will be all mine. Strike 
craftily, sahib. ’Tis an ill-balanced saber at the 

75 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


best. Wait till they laise their heads from 
cropping the marigolds.” 

“And why?” said Holden, bewildered. 

“For the birth sacrifice. What else? Other¬ 
wise the child, being unguarded from fate, may 
die. The Protector of the Poor knows the 
fitting words to be said.” 

Holden had learned them once, with little 
thought that he would ever say them in earnest. 
The touch of the cold saber-hilt in his palm 
turned suddenly to the clinging grip of the 
child upstairs—the child that was his own son— 
and a dread of loss filled him. 

“Strike!” said Pir Khan. “Never life came 
into the world but life was paid for it. See, the 
goats have raised their heads. Now! With a 
drawing cut!” 

Hardly knowing what he did, Holden cut 
twice as he muttered the Mohammedan prayer 
that runs: “Almighty! In place of this my 
son I offer life for life, blood for blood, head for 
head, bone for bone, hair for hair, skin for skin.” 
The waiting horse snorted and bounded in his 
pickets at the smell of the raw blood that spurted 
over Holden’s riding-boots. 

“Well smitten!” said Pir Khan, wiping the 
saber. “A swordsman was lost in thee. Go 
with a light heart, heaven bom. I am thy 
servant and the servant of thy son. May the 

Presence live a thousand years, and-the flesh 

of the goats is all mine?” 

Pir Khan drew back richer by a month’s 

76 





Without Benefit of Clergy 


pay. Holden swung himself into the saddle 
and rode off through the low-hanging wood 
smoke of the evening. He was full of riotous 
exultation, alternating with a vast vague 
tenderness directed toward no particular object 
that made him choke as he bent over the neck 
of his uneasy horse. “I never felt like this in 
my life,” he thought. “I’ll go to the club and 
pull myself together.” 

A game of pool was beginning, and the room 
was full of men. Holden entered, eager to get 
to the light and the company of his fellows 
singing at the top of his voice: 

‘“In Baltimore a-walking, a lady I did meet.’ ” 

“Did you?” said the club secretary from his 
corner. “Did she happen to tell you that your 
boots were wringing wet. Great goodness, man, 
it’s blood!” 

“Bosh!” said Holden, picking his cue from 
the rack. “May I cut in? It’s dew. I’ve 
been riding through high crops. My faith! 
my boots are in a mess, though! 

“ ‘And if it be a girl, she shall wear a wedding- 
ring; 

And if it be a boy, he shall fight for his king; 
With his dirk and his cap and his little jacket 
blue, 

He shall walk the quarter-deck- 

“Yellow and blue—green next player,” said 
the marker, monotonously. 

77 



Masterpieces of Fiction 


“‘He shall walk the quarter-deck’—am I 
green, marker?-—‘he shall walk the quarter-deck 
—ouch! that’s a bad shot!—‘as his daddy used 
to do!”’ 

“I don’t see that you have anything to crow 
about,” said a zealous junior civilian, acidly. 
“The government is not exactly pleased with 
your work when you relieved Sanders.” 

“Does that mean a wigging from head¬ 
quarters?” said Holden, with an abstracted 
smile. “X think I can stand it.” 

The talk beat up round the ever-fresh subject 
of each man’s work, and steadied Holden till it 
was time to go to his dark, empty bungalow, 
where his butler received him as one who knew 
all his affairs. Holden remained awake for the 
greater part of the night, and his dreams were 
pleasant ones. 

II 

“How old is he now?” 

“Ya illah! What a man’s question! He is 
all but six weeks old; and on this night I go 
up to the house-top with thee, my life, to count 
the stars. For that is auspicious. And he was 
born on a Friday, under the sign of the Sun, and 
it has been told to me that he will outlive us 
both and get wealth. Can we wish for aught 
better, beloved?” 

‘ ‘ There is nothing better. Let us go up to the 
roof, and thou shalt count the stars—but a 
few only, for the sky is heavy with cloud.” 

7 » 


Without Benefit of Clergy 


“The winter rains are late, and maybe they 
come out of season. Come, before all the stars 
are hid. I have put on my richest jewels.” 

“Thou hast forgotten the best of all.” 

“ A hi ! Ours. He comes also. He has never 
yet seen the skies.” 

Ameera climbed the narrow staircase that led 
to the flat roof. The child, placid and unwinking, 
lay in the hollow of her right arm, gorgeous in 
silver-fringed muslin, with a small skull-cap 
on his head. Ameera wore all that she valued 
most : the diamond nose-stud that takes the 
place of the Western patch in drawing attention 
to the curve of the nostril, the gold ornament 
in the centre of the forehead studded with 
tallow-drop emeralds and flawed rubies, the 
heavy circlet of beaten gold that was fastened 
round her neck by the softness of the pure 
metal, and the chinking curb-patterned silver 
anklets hanging low oyer the rosy ankle-bone. 
She was dressed in jade-green muslin, as befitted 
a daughter of the Faith, and from shoulder to 
elbow and elbow to wrist ran bracelets of silver 
tied with floss silk, frail glass bangles slipped over 
the wrist in proof of the slenderness of the hand, 
and certain heavy gold bracelets that had no 
part in her country’s ornaments, but since they 
were Holden’s gift, and fastened with a cunning 
European snap, delighted her immensely. 

They sat down by the low white parapet of 
the roof, overlooking the city and its lights. 

“They are happy down there,” said Ameera. 

79 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


“But I do not think that they are as happy as 
we. Nor do I think the white mem-log are as 
happy. And thou?” 

“I know they are not.” 

“How dost thou know?” 

“They give their children over to the nurses.” 

“I have never seen that,” said Ameera, with 
a sigh; “nor do I wish to see. Alii !"—she 
dropped her head on Holden’s shoulder— 
“I have counted forty stars, and I am tired. 
Look at the child, love of my life. He is count¬ 
ing, too.” 

The baby was staring with round eyes at the 
dark of the heavens. Ameera placed him in 
Holden’s arms, and he lay there without a cry. 

“What shall we call him among ourselves?” 
she said. “Look! Art thou ever tired of 
looking? He carries thy very eyes! But the 
mouth-” 

“Is thine, most dear. Who should know 
better than I?” 

“’Tis such a feeble mouth. Oh, so small! 
And yet it holds my heart between its lips. 
Give him to me now. He has been too long 
away.” 

“Nay, let him lie; he has not yet begun to 
cry.” 

“When he cries thou wilt give him back, eh? 
What a man of mankind thou art! If he cried, 
he were only the dearer to me. But, my life, 
what little name shall we give him?” 

The small body lay close to Holden’s heart. 

So 


Without Benefit of Clergy 


It was utterly helpless and very soft. He scarcely 
dared to breathe for fear of crushing it. The 
caged green parrot, that is regarded as a sort 
of guardian spirit in most native households, 
moved on its perch and fluttered a drowsy 
wing. 

“There is the answer,” said Holden. “Mian 
Mittu has spoken. He shall be the parrot. 
When he is ready he will talk mightily, and run 
about. Mian Mittu is the parrot in thy—in the 
Mussulman tongue, is it not?” 

“Why put me so far off?” said Ameera, 
fretfully. “Let it be like unto some English 
name—but not wholly. For he is mine.” 

“Then call him Tota, for that is likest English.” 

“Ay, Tota; and that is still the parrot. For¬ 
give me, my lord, for a minute ago; but, in truth, 
he is too little to wear all the weight of Mian 
Mittu for name. He shall be Tota—our Tota 
to us. Hearest thou, oh small one? Littlest, 
thou art Tota.” 

She touched the child’s cheek, and he, waking, 
wailed, and it was necessary to return him to 
his mother, who soothed him with the wonderful 
rhyme of “Are koko, Ja re koko!” which says: 

“Oh, crow ! Go crow ! Baby’s sleeping sound, 
And the wild plums grow in the jungle, only a 
penny a pound— 

Only a penny a pound, Baba —only a penny a 
pound.” 

Reassured many times as to the price of those 
plums, Tpta cuddled himself down to sleep. The 
8t 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


two sleek white well-bullocks in the courtyard 
were steadily chewing the cud of their evening 
meal; old Pir Khan squatted at the head of 
Holden’s horse, his police sabre across his knees, 
pulling drowsily at a big water-pipe that croaked 
like a bull-frog in a pond. Ameera’s mother 
sat spinning in the lower veranda, and the 
wooden gate was shut and barred. The music 
of a marriage procession came to the roof above 
the gentle hum of the city, and a string of 
flying-foxes crossed the face of the low moon. 

“I have prayed,” said Ameera, after a long 
pause, with her chin in her hand—‘‘I have 
prayed for two things. First, that I may die in 
thy stead, if thy death is demanded; and in 
the second, that I may die in the place of the 
child. I have prayed to the Prophet and to 
Beebee Miriam [the Virgin Mary]. Thinkest 
thou either will hear?” 

‘‘From thy lips who would not hear the lightest 
word?” 

‘‘I asked for straight talk, and thou has given 
me sweet talk. Will my prayers be heard?” 

‘‘How can I say? God is very good.” 

‘‘Of that I am not sure. Listen now. When 
I die or the child dies, what is thy fate? Living, 
thou wilt return to the bold white mem-log , for 
kind calls to kind.” 

‘‘Not always.” 

“With a woman, no. With a man it is other¬ 
wise. Thou wilt in this life, later on, go back 
to thine own folk. That I could almost endure, 
82 


Without Benefit of Clergy 


for I should be dead. But in thy very death 
thou wilt he taken away to a strange place and a 
paradise that I do not know.” 

‘‘Will it be paradise?” 

‘‘Surely; for what God would harm thee? 
But we two—I and the child—shall be elsewhere, 
and we cannot come to thee, nor canst thou 
come to us. In the old days, before the child 
was bom, I did not think of these things; but now 
I think of them perpetually. It is very hard 
talk.” 

‘‘It will fall as it will fall. To-morrow we do 
not know, but to-day and love we know well. 
Surely we are happy now.” 

‘‘So happy that it were well to make our happi¬ 
ness assured. And thy Beebee Miriam should 
listen to me; for she is also a woman. But then 
she wc^uld envy me. It is not seemly for men 
to worship a woman.” 

Holden laughed aloud at Ameera’s little 
spasm of jealousy. 

‘‘Is it not^seemly? Why didst thou not turn 
me from worship of thee, then?” 

‘‘Thou a worshipper! And of me! My king, 
for all thy sweet words, well I know that I am 
thy servant and thy slave, and the dust under 
thy feet. And I would not have it otherwise. 
See!” 

Before Holden could prevent her she stooped 
forward and touched his feet; recovering herself 
with a little laugh, she hugged Tota closer to 
her bosom. Then, almost savagely: 

$3 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


“Is it true that the bold white mem-log live 
for three times the length of my life ? Is it true 
that they make their marriages not before they 
are old women?” 

“They marry as do others—when they are 
women.” 

“That I know, but they wed when they are^ 
twenty-five. Is that true?” 

“That is true.” 

,l Ya illah! At twenty-five! Who would of 
his own will take a wife even of eighteen? She 
is a woman—aging every hour. Twenty-five! 
I shall be an old woman at that age, and— 
Those mem-log remain young forever. How I 
hate them! ” 

“What have they to do with us?” 

“I cannot tell. I know only that there may 
now be alive on this earth a woman ten years older 
than I who may come to thee and take thy love 
ten years after I am an old woman, gray-headed, 
and the nurse of Tota’s son. That is unjust 
and evil. They should die too.” 

“Now, for all thy years thou art a child, and 
shalt be picked up and carried down the stair¬ 
case.” 

“Total Have a care for Tota, my lord! 
Thou at least art as foolish as any babe!” 
Ameera tucked Tota out of harm’s way in the 
hollow in her neck, and was carried downstairs, 
laughing, in Holden’s arms, while Tota opened 
his eyes and smiled, after the manner of the 
lesser angels. 


S 4 


Without Benefit of Clergy 


He was a silent infant, and almost before 
Holden could realise that he was in the world, 
developed into a small gold-coloured godling 
and unquestioned despot of the house over¬ 
looking the city. Those were months of absolute 
happiness to Holden and Ameera—happiness 
withdrawn from the world, shut in behind the 
wooden gate that Pir Khan guarded. By day 
Holden did his work, with an immense pity for 
such as were not so fortunate as himself, and a 
sympathy for small children that amazed and 
amused many mothers at the little station 
gatherings. At nightfall he returned to Ameera 
—Ameera full of the wondrous doings of Tota: 
how he had been seen to clap his hands together 
and move his fingers with intention and purpose, 
which was manifestly a miracle; how, later, he 
had of his own initiative crawled out of his low 
bedstead on to the floor, and swayed on both 
feet for the space of three breaths. “And they 
were long breaths, for my heart stood still with 
delight,” said Ameera. 

Then he took the beasts into his councils— 
the well-bullocks, the little gray squirrels, the 
mongoose that lived in a hole near the well, 
and especially Mian Mittu, the parrot, whose 
tail he grievously pulled, and Mian Mittu 
screamed till Ameera and Holden arrived. 

“Oh, villain! child of strength! This to 
thy brother on the house-top! Tobah, tobah! 
Fie! fie! But I know a charm to make him wise 
as Suleiman and Aflatoun [Solomon and Plato]. 
85 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Now look/’ said Ameefa. She drew from an 
embroidered bag a handful of almond9. “See! 
we count seven. In the name of God!” She 
placed Mian Mittu, very angry and rumpled, 
on the top of his cage, and, seating herself 
between the babe and the bird, cracked and 
peeled an almond less white than her teeth. 
“This is a true charm, my life; and do not laugh. 
See! I give the parrot one half and Tota the 
other.” Mian Mittu, with careful beak, took 
his share from between Ameera’s lips, and she 
kissed the other half into the mouth of the child, 
who ate it slowly, with wondering eyes. “This 
I will do each day of seven, and without doubt 
he who is ours will be a bold speaker and wise. 
Eh, Tota, what wilt thou be when thou art a 
man and I am gray-headed?” Tota tucked his 
fat legs into adorable creases. He could crawl, 
but he was not going to waste the spring of his 
youth in idle speech. He wanted Mian Mittu’s 
tail to tweak. 

When he was advanced to the dignity of a 
silver belt—which, with a magic square engraved 
on silver and hung round his neck, made up the 
greater part of his clothing—he staggered on a 
perilous journey down the garden to Pir Khan 
and proffered him all his jewels in exchange for 
one little ride on Holden’s horse. He had seen 
his mother’s mother chaffering with peddlers 
in the veranda. Pir Khan wept, set the untried 
feet on his own gray head in sign of fealty, and 
brought the bold adventurer to his mother’s 
86 


Without Benefit of Clergy 


arms, vowing that Tota would be a leader of 
men ere his beard was grown. 

One hot evening, while he sat on the roof 
between his father and mother, watching the 
never-ending warfare of the kites that the city- 
boys flew, he demanded a kite of his own, with 
Pir Khan to fly it, because he had a fear of 
dealing with anything larger than himself; and 
when Holden called him a “spark,” he rose to 
his feet and answered slowly, in defence of his 
new-found individuality, “Hum ’park nahin 
hai. Hum admi hai ” [I am no spark, but a 
man.] 

The protest made Holden choke, and devote 
himself very seriously to a consideration of 
Tota’s future. 

He need hardly have taken the trouble. The 
delight of that life was too perfect to endure. 
Therefore it Was taken away, as many things 
are taken away in India, suddenly and without 
warning. The little lord of the house, as Pir 
Khan called him, grew sorrowful and com¬ 
plained of pains, who had never known the 
meaning of pain. Ameera, wild with terror, 
watched him through the night, and in the 
dawning of the second day the life was shaken 
out of him by fever—the seasonal autumn fever. 
It seemed altogether impossible that he could 
die, and neither Ameera nor Holden at first 
believed the evidence of the body on the bed¬ 
stead. Then Ameera beat her head against 
the wall, and would have flung herself down the 
87 


/ 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


well in the garden had Holden not restrained 
her by main force. 

One mercy only was granted to Holden. He 
rode to his office in broad daylight, and found 
awaiting him an unusually heavy mail that de¬ 
manded concentrated attention and hard work. 
He was not, however, alive to this kindness of 
the gods. 

Ill 

The first shock of a bullet is no more than a 
brisk pinch. The wrecked body does not send in 
its protest to the soul till ten or fifteen seconds 
later. Then comes thirst, throbbing, and agony, 
and a ridiculous amount of screaming. Holden 
realised his pain slowly, exactly as he had 
realised his happiness, and with the same 
imperious necessity for hiding all trace of it. 
In the beginning he only felt that there had 
been a loss, and that Ameera needed comforting 
where she sat with her head on her knees, 
shivering as Mian Mittu, from the house-top, 
called “Total Total Total” Later all his 
world and the daily life of it rose up to hurt him. 
It was an outrage that any one of the children 
at the band-stand in the evening should be 
alive and clamorous when his own child lay 
dead. It was more than mere pain when one 
of them touched him, and stories told by over- 
fond fathers of their children’s latest perform¬ 
ances cut him to the quick. He could not 
declare his pain. He had neither help, comfort, 
88 


Without Benefit of Clergy 


nor sympathy, and Ameera, at the end of each 
weary day, would lead him through the hell 
of self-questioning reproach which is reserved 
for those who have lost a child, and believe 
that with a little—just a little—more care it 
might have been saved. There are not many 
hells worse than this, but he knows one who 
has sat down temporarily to consider whether 
he is or is not responsible for the death of his 
wife. 

“Perhaps,” Ameera would say, “I did not 
take sufficient heed. Did I, or did I not? 
The sun on the roof that day when he played 
so long alone, and I was— ahi! braiding my hair 
—it may be that the sun then bred the fever. 
If I had warned him from the sun he might 
have lived. But oh, my life, say that I am 
guiltless! Thou knowest that I loved him as I 
love thee! Say that there is no blame on me, 
or I shall die—I shall die!” 

“There is no blame. Before God, none. It 
was written, and how could we do aught to 
save? What has been, has been. Let it go, 
beloved.” 

“He was all my heart to me. How can I let 
the thought go when my arm tells me every 
night that he is not here? Ahi! ahi! Oh, 
Tota, come back to me—come back again, 
and let us be all together as it was before!” 

“Peace! peace! For thine own sake, and for 
mine also, if thou lovest me, rest.” 

“By this I know thou dost not care; and how 
89 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


shouldst thou? The white men have hearts of 
stone and souls of iron. Oh that I had married 
a man of mine own people—though he beat me— 
and had never eaten the bread of an alien! ” 

“Am I an alien, mother of my son? ,? 

“What else, sahib-? Oh, forgive me— 

forgive! The death has driven me mad. Thou 
art the life of my heart, and the light of my eyes, 
and the breath of my life, and—and I have put 
thee from me, though it was but for a moment. 
If thou goest away, to whom shall I look for 
help? Do not be angry. Indeed, it was the 
pain that spoke, and not thy slave.” 

“I know—I know. We be two who were 
three. The greater need, therefore, that we 
should be one,” 

They were sitting on the roof, as of custom. 
The night was a warm one in early spring, and 
sheet-lightning was dancing on the horizon to 
a broken tune played by far-off thunder. 

Ameera settled herself in Holden’s arms. 

“The dry earth is lowing like a cow for the 
rain, and I—I am afraid. It was not like this 
when we counted the stars. But thou lovest 
me as much as before, though a bond is taken 
away ? Answer. ’ ’ 

“I love more, because a new bond has come 
out of the sorrow that we have eaten together; 
and that thou knowest.” 

“Yea, I know,” said Ameera, in a very small 
whisper. “But it is good to hear thee say 
so, my life, who art so strong to help. I will 
90 



Without Benefit of Clergy 


be a child no more, but a woman and an aid to 
thee. Listen. Give me my sitar, and I will 
sing bravely.” 

She took the light silver-studded sitar , and 
began a song of the great hero Rajd Rasalu. 
The hand failed on the strings, the tune halted, 
checked, and at a low note turned off to the 
poor little nursery-rhyme about the wicked 
crow: 

“ ‘And the wild plums grow in the jungle— 
Only a penny a pound, 

Only a penny a pound, Baba —only—’ ” 

Then came the tears and the piteous rebellion 
against fate, till she slept, moaning a little in her 
sleep, with the right arhi thrown clear of the 
body, as though it protected something that 
was not there. 

It was after this night that life became a little 
easier for Holden. The ever-present pain of 
loss drove him into his work, and the work 
repaid him by filling up his mind for eight or 
nine hours a day. Ameera sat alone in the 
house and brooded, but grew happier when she 
understood that Holden was more at ease, 
according to the custom of women. They 
touched happiness again, but this time with 
caution. 

‘‘It was because we loved Tota that he died. 
The jealousy of God was upon us,” said Ameera. 
“I have hung up a large black jar before our 
window to turn the Evil Eye from us, and 

9 1 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


we must make no protestations of delight, but 
go softly underneath the stars, lest God find 
us out. Is that not good talk, worthless 
one?” 

She had shifted the accent of the word that 
means “beloved,” in proof of the sincerity of her 
purpose. But the kiss that followed the new 
christening was a thing that any deity might 
have envied. They went about henceforth 
saying: “It is naught—it is naught,” and 
hoping that all the powers heard. 

The powers were busy on other things. They 
had allowed thirty million people four years of 
plenty, wherein men fed well and the crops were 
certain and the birth-rate rose year by year; 
the districts reported a purely agricultural 
population varying from nine hundred to two 
thousand to the square mile of the overburdened 
earth. It was time to make room. And the 
Member of the Lower Tooting, wandering about 
India in top-hat and frock-coat, talked largely 
of the benefits of British rule, and suggested as 
the one thing needful the establishment of a 
duly qualified electoral system and a general 
bestowal of the franchise. His long - suffering 
hosts smiled and made him welcome, and when 
he paused to admire, with pretty picked words, 
the blossom of the blood-red dhak-tree, that 
had flowered untimely for a sign of the sickness 
that was coming, they smiled more than ever. 

It was the Deputy Commissioner of Kot- 
Kumfiarsen, staying at the club for a day, who 


9 ? 


Without Benefit of Clergy 


lightly told a tale that made Holden’s blood run 
cold as he overheard the end. 

“He won’t bother anyone any more. Never 
saw a man so astonished in my life. By Jove! 
I thought he meant to ask a question in the 
House about it. Fellow-passenger in his ship— 
dined next him—bowled over by cholera, and 
died in eighteen hours. You needn’t laugh, you 
fellows. The Member for Lower Tooting is 
awfully angry about it; but he’s more scared. 
I think he’s going to take his enlightened self 
out of India.” 

“I’d give a good deal if he were knocked over. 
It might keep a few vestrymen of his kidney to 
their parish. But what’s this about cholera? 
It’s full early for anything of that kind,” said 
a warden of an unprofitable salt-lick. 

“Dunno,” said the deputy commissioner, 
reflectively. “We’ve got locusts with us. 
There’s sporadic cholera all along the north— 
at least, we’re calling it sporadic for decency’s 
sake. The spring crops are short in five dis¬ 
tricts, and nobody seems to know where the 
winter rains are. It’s nearly March now. I 
don’t want to scare anybody, but it seems to 
me that Nature’s going to audit her accounts 
with a big red pencil this summer.” 

“Just when I wanted to take leave, too,” 
said a voice across the room. 

“There won’t he much leave this year, but 
there ought to be a great deal of promotion. 
I’ve come in to persuade the government to 


93 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


put my pet canal on the list of famine- 
relief works. It’s an ill wind that blows 
no good. I shall get that canal finished 
at last,” 

‘‘Is it the old programme, then,” said Holden 
—famine, fever, and cholera?” 

‘‘Oh, no! Only local scarcity and an unusual 
prevalence of seasonal sickness. You'll find 
it all in the reports if you live till next year. 
You’re a lucky chap. You haven’t got a wife 
to put out of harm’s way. The hill-stations 
ought to be full of women this year.” 

‘‘I think you’re inclined to exaggerate the 
talk in the bazaars,” said a young civilian in the 
secretariat. ‘‘Now, I have observed-” 

‘‘I daresay you have,” said the deputy com¬ 
missioner, ‘‘but you’ve a great deal more to 
observe, my son. In the meantime, I wish to 

observe to you-” And he drew him aside to 

discuss the construction of the canal that was 
so dear to his heart. 

Holden went to his bungalow, and began to 
understand that he was pot alone in the world, 
and also that he was afraid for the sake of another, 
which is the most soul-satisfying fear known to 
man. 

Two months later, as the deputy had foretold, 
Nature began to audit her accounts with a red 
pencil. On the heels of the spring reapings 
came a cry for bread, and the government, which 
had decreed that no man should die of want, 
sent wheat. Then came the cholera from all 


94 



Without Benefit of Clergy 


four quarters of the compass. It struck a 
pilgrim gathering of half a million at a sacred 
shrine. Many died at the feet of their god, 
the others broke and ran over the face of the 
land, carrying the pestilence with them. It 
smote a walled city and killed two hundred a 
day. The people crowded the trains, hanging 
on to the foot-boards and squatting on the 
roofs of the carriages; and the cholera followed 
them, for at each station they dragged out the 
dead and the dying on the platforms reeking of 
lime-wash and carbolic acid. They died by the 
roadside, and the horses of the Englishmen shied 
at the corpses in the grass. The rains did not 
come, and the earth turned to iron lest man 
should escape by hiding in her. The English 
sent their wives away to the Hills, and went 
about their work, coming forward as they were 
bidden to fill the gaps in the fighting line. 
Holden, sick with fear of losing his chiefest 
treasure on earth, had done his best to persuade 
Ameera to go away with her mother to the 
Himalayas. 

“Why should I go?” said she one evening on 
the roof. 

“There is sickness, and the people are dying, 
and all the white mem-log have gone.” 

“All of them?” 

“All—unless, perhaps, there remain some old 
scald-head who vexes her husband’s heart by 
running risk of death.” 

“Nay; who stays is my sister, and thou must 

95 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


not abuse her, for I will be a scald-head too. I 
am glad all the bold white mem-log are gone.” 

4 4 Do I speak to a woman or a 'babe ? Go to 
the Hills, and I will see to it that thou goest like 
a queen’s daughter. Think, child! In a red- 
lacquered bullock-cart, veiled and curtained, 
with brass peacocks upon the pole and red- 
cloth hangings. I will send two orderlies for 
guard, and-” 

44 Peace! Thou art the babe in speaking thus. 
What use are those toys to me? He would 
have patted the bullocks and played with the 
housings. For his sake, perhaps — thou hast 
made me very English—I might have gone. 
Now I will not. Let the mem-log run.” 

44 Their husbands are sending them, beloved.” 

4 4 Very good talk. Since when hast thou been 
my husband to tell me what to do? I have but 
borne thee a son. Thou art only all the desire 
of my soul to me. How shall I depart when I 
know that if evil befall thee by the breadth of so 
much as my littlest finger-nail—is that not 
small?—I should be aware of it though I were 
in Paradise? And here, this summer thou 
mayest die— ahi, janee, die!—and in dying they 
might call to tend thee a white woman, and she 
would rob me in the last of thy love.” 

‘‘But love is not born in a moment, or on a 
death-bed.” 

“What dost thou know of love, stone-heart? 
She would take thy thanks at least, and, by 
God and the Prophet and Beebee Miriam, the 
96 


t 


Without Benefit of Clergy 


mother of thy Prophet, that I will never endure. 
My lord and my love, let there be no more 
foolish talk of going away. Where thou art, I 
am. It is enough.” She put an arm round his 
neck and a hand on his mouth. 

There are not many happinesses so complete 
as those that are snatched under the shadow of 
the sword. They sat together and laughed, 
calling each other openly by every pet name 
that could move the wrath of the gods. The 
city below them was locked up in its own tor¬ 
ments. Sulphur-fires blazed in the streets; the 
conches in the Hindu temples screamed and 
bellowed, for the gods were inattentive in those 
days. There was a service in the great Moham¬ 
medan shrine, and the call to prayer from the 
minarets was almost unceasing. They heard 
the wailing in the houses of the dead, and once 
the shriek of a mother who had lost a child and 
was calling for its return. In the gray dawn 
they saw the dead borne out through the city 
gates, each litter with its own little knot of 
mourners. Wherefore they kissed each other 
and shivered. 

It was a red and heavy audit, for the land was 
very sick and needed a little breathing-space ere 
the torrent of cheap life should flood it anew. 
The children of immature fathers and unde¬ 
veloped mothers made no resistance. They 
were cowed and sat still, waiting till the sword 
should be sheathed in November, if it were so 
yriUed. There were gaps among the English, 

97 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


but the gaps were filled. The work of superin¬ 
tending famine relief, cholera-sheds, medicine 
distribution, and what little sanitation was 
possible, went forward because it was so ordered. 

Holden had been told to hold himself in 
readiness to move to replace the next man who 
should fall. There were twelve hours in each 
day when he could not see Ameera, and she 
might die in three. He was considering what 
his pain would be if he could not see her for 
three months, or if she died out of his sight. 
He was absolutely certain that her death would 
be demanded—so certain that, when he looked 
up from the telegram and saw Pir Khan breathless 
in the doorway, he laughed aloud, “And?” 
said he. 

“When there is a cry in the night and the 
spirit flutters into the throat, who has a charm 
that will restore? Come swiftly, heaven born. 
It is the black cholera.” 

Holden galloped to his home. The sky was 
heavy with clouds, for the long-deferred rains 
were at hand, and the heat was stifling. Ameera’s 
mother met him in the court-yard, whimpering: 
‘ * She is dying. She is nursing herself into death. 
She is all but dead. What shall I do, sahib?” 

Ameera was lying in the room in which Tota 
had been born. She made no sign when Holden 
entered, because the human soul is a very lonely 
thing, and when it is getting ready to go away 
hides itself in a misty borderland where the 
living may not follow. The black cholera does 
98 


Without Benefit of Clergy 


its work quietly and without explanation. 
Ameera was being thrust out of life as though 
the Angel of Death had himself put his hand 
upon her. The quick breathing seemed to show 
that she was either afraid or in pain, but neither 
eyes nor mouth gave any answer to Holden’s 
kisses. There was nothing to be said or done. 
Holden could only wait and suffer. The first 
drops of the rain began to fall on the roof, and he 
could hear shouts of joy in the parched city 

The soul came back a little and the lips moved. 
Holden bent down to listen. “Keep nothing or 
mine,” said Ameera. “Take no hair from my 
head. She would make thee burn it later on. 
That flame I should feel. Lower! Stoop 
lower! Remember only that I was thine and 
bore thee a son. Though thou wed a white 
woman to-morrow, the pleasure of taking in thy 
arms thy first son is taken from thee forever. 
Remember me when thy son is bom—the one 
that shall carry thy name before all men. His 
misfortunes be on my head. I bear witness— 
I bear witness”—the lips were forming the 
words on his ear—“that there is no God but— 
thee, beloved.” 

Then she died. Holden sat still, and thought 
of any kind was taken from him till he heard 
Ameera’s mother lift the curtain. 

“Is she dead, sahib?” 

“She is dead.” 

“Then I will mourn, and afterward take an 
inventory of the furniture in this house; for that 


99 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


will be mine. The sahib does not mean to 
resume it. It is so little, so very little, sahib, 
and I am an old woman. I would like to lie 
softly.” 

“For the mercy of God, be silent a while! 
Go out and mourn where I cannot hear.” 

“Sahib, she will be buried in four hours.” 

“I know the custom. I shall go ere she is 
taken away. That matter is in thy hands. 
Look to it that the bed—on which—on which— 
she lies—” 

“Aha! That beautiful red-lacquered bed. I 
have long desired-” 

“—That the bed is left here untouched for 
my disposal. All else in the house is thine. 
Hire a cart, take everything, go hence, and 
before sunrise let there be nothing in this 
house but that which I have ordered thee to 
respect.” 

“I am an old woman. I would stay at least 
for the days of mourning, and the rains have 
just broken. Whither shall I go?” 

“What is that to me? My order is that there 
is a going. The house-gear is worth a thousand 
rupees, and my orderly shall bring thee a hundred 
rupees to-night.” 

“That is very little. Think of the cart-hire.” 

“It shall be nothing unless thou goest, and 
with speed. Oh, woman, get hence, and leave 
me to my dead!” 

The mother shuffled down the staircase, and 
in her anxiety to take stock of the house-fittings 


ioo 



Without Benefit of Clergy 


forgot to mourn. Holden stayed by Ameera’s 
side, and the rain roared on the roof. He could 
not think connectedly by reason of the noise, 
though he made many attempts to do so. Then 
four sheeted ghosts glided dripping into the 
room and stared at him through their veils. 
They were the washers of the dead. Holden 
left the room and went out to his horse. He had 
come in a dead, stifling calm, through ankle- 
deep dust. He found the courtyard a rain- 
lashed pond alive with frogs, a torrent of yellow 
water ran under the gate, and a roaring wind 
drove the bolts of the rain like buckshot against 
the mud walls. Pir Khan was shivering in 
his little hut by the gate, and the horse was 
stamping uneasily in the water. 

“I have been told the sahib’s order,” said he. 
‘‘It is well. This house is now desolate. I go 
also, for my monkey face would be a reminder 
of that which has been. Concerning the bed, I 
will bring that to thy house yonder in the 
morning. But remember, sahib, it will be to 
thee as a knife turned in a green wound. I go 
upon a pilgrimage and I will take no money. I 
have grown fat in the protection of the Presence, 
whose sorrow is my sorrow. For the last time 
I hold his stirrup.” 

He touched Holden’s foot with both hands, 
and the horse sprung out into the road, where 
the creaking bamboos were whipping the sky 
and all the frogs were chuckling. Holden could 
not see for the rain in his face. He put his 


IOI 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


hands before his eyes and muttered: “Oh, you 
brute! You utter brute!” 

The news of his trouble was already in his 
bungalow. He read the knowledge in his 
butler’s eyes when Ahmed Khan brought in 
food, and for the first and last time in his life 
laid a hand upon his master’s shoulder, saying: 
“Eat, sahib, eat. Meat is good against sorrow. 
I also have known. Moreover, the shadows 
come and go, sahib. These be curried eggs.” 

Holden could neither eat nor sleep. The 
heavens sent down eight inches of rain in that 
night and scoured the earth clean. The waters 
tore down walls, broke roads, and washed open 
the shallow graves in the Mohammedan burying- 
ground. All next day it rained, and Holden sat 
still in his house considering his sorrow. On 
the morning of the third day he received a 
telegram which said only: ‘ ‘ Ricketts, Myndonie. 

Dying. Holden. Relieve. Immediate.” Then 
he thought that before he departed he would 
look at the house wherein he had been master 
and lord. There was a break in the weather. 
The rank earth steamed with vapor, and Holden 
was vermilion from head to heel with the prickly- 
heat born of sultry moisture. 

He found that the rains had torn down the 
mud-pillars of the gateway, and the heavy 
wooden gate that had guarded his life hung 
drunkenly from one hinge. There was grass 
three inches high in the courtyard; Pir Khan’s 
lodge was empty, and the sodden thatch sagged 


102 


Without Benefit of Clergy 


between the beams. A gray squirrel was in 
possession of the veranda, as if the house had 
been untenanted for thirty years instead of 
three days. Ameera’s mother had removed 
everything except some mildewed matting. 
The tick-tick of the little scorpions as they hurried 
across the floor was the only sound in the house. 
Ameera’s room and that other one where Tota 
had lived were heavy with mildew, and the nar¬ 
row staircase leading to the roof was streaked 
and stained with rain-borne mud. Holden saw all 
these things, and came out again to meet in the 
road Durga Dass, his landlord—portly, affable, 
clothed in white muslin, and driving a C-spring 
buggy. He was overlooking his property, to see 
how the roofs withstood the beat of the first rains. 

“I have heard,” said he, “you will not take this 
place any more, sahib?” 

* ‘ What are you going to do with it ? ” 

“Perhaps I shall let it again.” 

“Then I will keep it on while I am away.” 

Durga Dass was silent for some time. “You 
shall not take it on, sahib,” he said. “When I 
was a young man I also— But to-day I am a 
member of the municipality. Ho! ho! No! 
When the birds have gone, what need to keep 
the nest ? I will have it pulled down; the 
timber will sell for something always. It 
shall be pulled down, and the municipality 
shall make a road across, as they desire, from the 
burning-ghat to the city wall. So that no man 
may say where this house stood.” 

103 


THE MUMMY’S FOOT* 


BY 

Theophile Gautier 

I had entered, in an idle mood, the shop of one 
of those curiosity-venders who are called mdr- 
chands de bric-a-brac in that Parisian argot which 
is so perfectly unintelligible elsewhere in France. 

You have doubtless glanced occasionally 
through the windows of some of these shops, 
which have become so numerous now that it is 
fashionable to buy antiquated furniture, and that 
every petty stockbroker thinks he must have his 
chambre au moyen age. 

There is one thing there which clings alike to 
the shop of the dealer in old iron, the wareroom 
of the tapestry-maker, the laboratory of the 
chemist, and the studio of the painter: in all 
those gloomy dens where a furtive daylight 
filters in through the window-shutters, the most 
manifestly ancient thing is dust; the cobwebs 
are more authentic than the guimp laces; and 
the old pear-tree furniture on exhibition is actu¬ 
ally younger than the mahogany which arrived 
but yesterday from America. 

The warehouse of my bric-a-brac dealer was a 

♦Copyrighted by Brentano's, and reprinted with their per¬ 
mission. 


104 


The Mummy’s Foot 


veritable Capharnaum; all ages and all nations 
seemed to have made their rendezvous there; an 
Etruscan lamp of red clay stood upon a Boule 
cabinet, with ebony panels, brightly striped by 
lines of inlaid brass; a duchess of the court of 
Louis XV. nonchalantly extended her fawn-like 
feet under a massive table of the time of Louis 
XIII. with heavy spiral supports of oak, and 
carven designs of chimeras and foliage inter¬ 
mingled. 

Upon the denticulated shelves of several side¬ 
boards glittered immense Japanese dishes with 
red and blue designs relieved by gilded hatching, 
side by side with enamelled works by Bernard 
Palissy, representing serpents, frogs, and lizards 
in relief. 

From disembowelled cabinets escaped cascades 
of silver-lustrous Chinese silks and waves of tin¬ 
sel, which an oblique sunbeam shot through with 
luminous beads; while portraits of every era, in 
frames more or less tarnished, smiled through 
their yellow varnish. 

The striped breastplate of a damascened suit 
of Milanese armour glittered in one comer; 
Loves and Nymphs of porcelain; Chinese gro¬ 
tesques, vases of celadon and crackle-ware; 
Saxon and old Sevres cups, encumbered the 
shelves and nooks of the apartment. 

The dealer followed me closely through the 
tortuous way contrived between the piles of fur¬ 
niture ; warding off with his hand the hazardous 
sweep of my coat-skirts; watching my elbows 

105 


Masterpieces of Fiction 

with the uneasy attention of an antiquarian and 
a usurer. 

It was a singular face, that of the merchant— 
an immense skull, polished like a knee, and sur¬ 
rounded by a thin aureole of white hair, which 
brought out the clear salmon tint of his com¬ 
plexion all the more strikingly, lent him a false 
aspect of patriarchal bonhomie, counteracted, 
however, by the scintillation of two little yellow 
eyes which trembled in their orbits like two 
louis d'or upon quicksilver. The curve of his 
nose presented an aquiline silhouette, which sug¬ 
gested the Oriental or Jewish type. His hands— 
thin, slender, full of nerves which projected like 
strings upon the finger-board of a violin, and 
armed with claws like those on the terminations 
of bats’ wings—shook with senile trembling; 
but those convulsively agitated hands became 
firmer than steel pincers or lobsters’ claws when 
they lifted any precious article—an onyx cup, 
a Venetian glass, or a dish of Bohemian crystal. 
This strange old man had an aspect so thoroughly 
rabbinical and cabalistic that he would have been 
burnt on the mere testimony of his face three 
centuries ago. 

“Will you not buy something from me to-day, 
sir? Here is a Malay kreese with a blade undu¬ 
lating like flame: look at those grooves contrived 
for the blood to run along, those teeth set back¬ 
ward so as to tear out the entrails in withdrawing 
the weapon; it is a fine character of ferocious 
arm, and will look well in your collection: this 
106 


The Mummy’s Foot 


two-handed sword is very beautiful—it is the 
work of Josepe de la Hera; and this coliche- 
tnarde, with its fenestrated guard—what a superb 
specimen of handicraft!” 

No; I have quite enough weapons and instru¬ 
ments of carnage; I want a small figure—some¬ 
thing which will suit me as a paper-weight; for 
I cannot endure those trumpery bronzes which 
the stationers sell, and which may be found on 
everybody’s desk. 

The old gnome foraged among his ancient 
wares and finally arranged before me some an¬ 
tique bronzes—so-called, at least; fragments of 
malachite; little Hindoo or Chinese idols—a kind 
of poussah toys in jade-stone, representing the 
incarnations of Brahma or Vishnoo, and wonder¬ 
fully appropriate as stays for papers or letters. 

I was hesitating between a porcelain dragon, 
all constellated with warts—its mouth formidable 
with bristling tusks and ranges of teeth—and an 
abominable little Mexican fetish, representing 
the god Vitziliputzili au naturel, when I caught 
sight of a charming foot, which I at first took for 
a fragment of some antique Venus. 

It had those beautiful ruddy and tawny tints 
that lend to Florentine bronze that warm, living 
look so much preferable to the gray-green aspect 
of common bronzes, which might easily be mis¬ 
taken for statues in a state of putrefaction: sat¬ 
iny gleams played over its rounded forms, doubt¬ 
less polished by the amorous kisses of twenty 
centuries; for it seemed a Corinthian bronze, a 
107 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


work of the best era of art—perhaps moulded by 
Lysippus himself. 

“That foot will be my choice,” I said to the 
merchant, who regarded me with an ironical and 
saturnine air, and held out the object desired that 
I might examine it more fully. 

I was surprised at its lightness; it was not a 
foot of metal, but in sooth a foot of flesh—an 
embalmed foot—a mummy’s foot: on examining 
it still more closely the very grain of the skin, and 
the almost imperceptible lines impressed upon it 
by the texture of the bandages, became percepti¬ 
ble. The toes were slender and delicate, and 
terminated by perfectly formed nails, pure and 
transparent as agates; the great toe, slightly 
separated from the rest, afforded a happy con¬ 
trast, in the antique style, to the position of the 
other toes, and lent it an aerial lightness—the 
grace of a bird’s foot; the sole, scarcely streaked 
by a few almost imperceptible cross lines, af¬ 
forded evidence that it had never touched the 
bare ground, and had only come in contact with 
the finest matting of Nile rushes and the softest 
carpets of panther skin. 

“Ha, ha! You want the foot of the Princess 
Hermonthis,” exclaimed the merchant, with a 
strange giggle, fixing his owlish eyes upon me. 
“Ha, ha, ha!—for a paper-weight!—an original 
idea!—artistic idea! Old Pharaoh would cer¬ 
tainly have been surprised had some one told him 
that the foot of his adored daughter would 
be used for a paper-weight after he had had 
10 $ 


The Mummy’s Foot 


a mountain of granite hollowed out as a recep¬ 
tacle for the triple coffin, painted and gilded, 
covered with hieroglyphics and beautiful paint¬ 
ings of the Judgment of Souls,” continued the 
queer little merchant, half audibly, as though 
talking to himself! 

‘‘How much will you charge me for this 
mummy fragment?” 

“Ah, the highest price I can get; for it is a 
superb piece: if I had the match of it you could 
not have it for less than five hundred francs— 
the daughter of a Pharaoh! nothing is more 
rare.” 

“Assuredly that is not a common article; but 
still, how much do you want? In the first place, 
let me warn you that all my wealth consists of 
just five louis: I can buy anything that costs five 
louis, but nothing dearer. You might search my 
vest pockets and most secret drawers without 
even finding one poor five-franc piece more.” 

“Five louis for the foot of the Princess Her- 
monthis! that is very little, very little indeed; 
’t is an authentic foot,” muttered the merchant, 
shaking his head, and imparting a peculiar rotary 
motion to his eyes. “Well, take it, and I will 
give you the bandages into the bargain,” he 
added, wrapping the foot in an ancient damask 
rag—“very fine! real damask—Indian damask 
which has never been redyed; it is strong, and 
yet it is soft,” he mumbled, stroking the frayed 
tissue with his fingers, through the trade-acquired 
habit which moved him to praise even an object 
109 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


of so little value that he himself deemed it only 
worth the giving away. 

He poured the gold coins into a sort of 
mediaeval alms - purse hanging at «his belt, 
repeating: 

“The foot of the Princess Hermonthis, to be 
used for a paper-weight! ” 

Then turning his phosphorescent eyes upon 
me, he exclaimed in a voice strident as the crying 
of a cat which has swallowed a fish-bone: 

“Old Pharaoh will not be well pleased; he 
loved his daughter—the dear man!” 

“You speak as if you were a contemporary 
of his: you are old enough, goodness knows! 
but you do not date back to the Pyramids of 
Egypt,” I answered, laughingly, from the thresh¬ 
old. 

I went home, delighted with my acquisition. 

With the idea of putting it to profitable use as 
soon as possible, I placed the foot of the divine 
Princess Hermonthis upon a heap of papers 
scribbled over with verses, in themselves an 
undecipherable mosaic work of erasures; articles 
freshly begun; letters forgotten, and posted in 
the table-drawer instead of the letter-box—an 
error to which absent-minded people are pecul¬ 
iarly liable. The effect was charming, bizarre , 
and romantic. 

Well satisfied with this embellishment, I went 
out with the gravity and pride becoming one who 
feels that he has the ineffable advantage over all 
the passers-by whom he elbows, of possessing a 


no 


The Mummy’s Foot 

piece of the Princess Hermonthis, daughter of 
Pharaoh. 

I looked upon all who did not possess, like 
myself, a paper-weight so authentically Egyptian, 
as very ridiculous people; and it seeemd to me 
that the proper occupation of every sensible man 
should consist in the mere fact of having a mum¬ 
my’s foot upon his desk. 

Happily I met some friends, whose presence 
distracted me in my infatuation with this new 
acquisition: I went to dinner with them; for I 
could not very well have dined with myself. 

When I came back that evening, with my brain 
slightly confused by a few glasses of wine, a vague 
whiff of Oriental perfume delicately titillated 
my olfactory nerves: the heat of the room had 
warmed the natron, bitumen, and myrrh in 
which the paraschistes, who cut open the bodies 
of the dead, had bathed the corpse of the princess; 
it was a perfume at once sweet and penetrating— 
a perfume that four thousand years had not been 
able to dissipate. 

The Dream of Egypt was Eternity: her odours 
have the solidity of granite, and endure as long. 

I soon drank deeply from the black cup of 
sleep: for a few hours all remained opaque to 
me; Oblivion and Nothingness inundated me 
with their sombre waves. 

Yet light gradually dawned upon the darkness 
of my mind; dreams commenced to touch me 
softly in their silent flight. 

The eyes of my soul were opened; and I beheld 


hi 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


my chamber as it actually was; I might have 
believed myself awake, but for a vague con¬ 
sciousness which assured me that I slept, and 
that something fantastic was about to take place. 

The odour of the myrrh had augmented in 
intensity: and I felt a slight headache, which I 
very naturally attributed to several glasses of 
champagne that we had drunk to the unknown 
gods and our future fortunes. 

I peered through my room with a feeling of 
expectation which I saw nothing to justify: 
every article of furniture was in its proper place; 
the lamp, softly shaded by its globe of ground 
crystal, burned upon its bracket; the water¬ 
colour sketches shone under their Bohemian glass; 
the curtains hung down languidly; everything 
wore an aspect of tranquil slumber. 

After a few moments, however, all this calm 
interior appeared to become disturbed; the 
woodwork cracked stealthily; the ash - covered 
log suddenly emitted a jet of blue flame; and the 
disks of the pateras seemed like great metallic 
eyes, watching, like myself, for the things which 
were about to happen. 

My eyes accidentally fell upon the desk where 
I had placed the foot of the Princess Hermonthis. 

Instead of remaining quiet, as behooved a foot 
which had been embalmed for four thousand 
years, it commenced to act in a nervous man¬ 
ner; contracted itself, and leaped over the papers 
like a startled frog; one would have imagined 
that it had suddenly been brought into contact 


11 2 


The Mummy’s Foot 


with a galvanic battery: I could distinctly hear 
the dry sound made by its little heel, hard as the 
hoof of a gazelle. 

I became rather discontented with my acquisi¬ 
tion, inasmuch as I wished my paper-weights to 
be of a sedentary disposition, and thought it very 
unnatural that feet should walk about without 
legs; and I commenced to experience a feeling 
closely akin to fear. 

Suddenly I saw the folds of my bed-curtain 
stir; and heard a bumping sound, like that caused 
by some person hopping on one foot across the 
floor. I must confess I became alternately hot 
and cold; that I felt a strange wind chill my 
back; and that my suddenly rising hair caused 
my nightcap to execute a leap of several yards. 

The bed-curtains opened and I beheld the 
strangest figure imaginable before me. 

It was a young girl of a very deep coffee-brown 
complexion, like the bayadere Amani, and pos¬ 
sessing the purest Egyptian type of perfect 
beauty: her eyes were almond-shaped and ob¬ 
lique, with eyebrows so black that they seemed 
blue; her nose was exquisitely chiselled, almost 
Greek in its delicacy of outline; and she might 
indeed have been taken for a Corinthian statue 
of bronze but for the prominence of her cheek¬ 
bones and the slightly African fulness of her lips, 
which compelled one to recognise her as belonging 
beyond all doubt to the hieroglyphic race which 
dwelt upon the banks of the Nile. 

Her arms, slender and spindle-shaped, like 


Masterpieces of Fiction 

those of very young girls, were encircled by a 
peculiar kind of metal bands and bracelets of 
glass beads; her hair was all twisted into little 
cords; and she wore upon her bosom a little idol- 
figure of green paste, bearing a whip with seven 
lashes, which proved it to be an image of Isis; 
her brow was adorned with a shining plate of gold, ^ 
and a few traces of paint relieved the coppery 
tint of her cheeks. 

As for her costume, it was very odd indeed. 

Fancy a pagne or skirt all formed of little strips 
of material bedizened with red and black hiero¬ 
glyphics, stiffened with bitumen, and apparently 
belonging to a freshly unbandaged mummy. 

In one of those sudden flights of thought so 
common in dreams I heard the hoarse falsetto 
of the bric-d-brac dealer, repeating like a monoto¬ 
nous refrain the phrase he had uttered in his shop 
with so enigmatical an intonation: 

“Old Pharaoh will not be well pleased: he 
loved his daughter, the dear man! ” 

One strange circumstance, which was not at 
all calculated to restore my equanimity, was that 
the apparition had but one foot; the other was 
broken off at the ankle! 

She approached the table where the foot was 
starting and fidgeting about more than ever, 
and there supported herself upon the edge of the 
desk. I saw her eyes fill with pearly gleaming 
tears. 

Although she had not as yet spoken, I fully 
comprehended the thoughts which agitated her: 


The Mummy’s Foot 


she looked at her foot—for it was indeed her 
own—with an exquisitely graceful expression of 
coquettish sadness; but the foot leaped and ran 
hither and thither, as though impelled on steel 
springs. 

Twice or thrice she extended her hand to seize 
it, but could not succeed. 

Then commenced between the Princess Her- 
monthis and her foot—which appeared to be 
endowed with a special life of its own—a very 
fantastic dialogue in a most ancient Coptic 
tongue, such as might have been spoken thirty 
centuries ago in the syrinxes of the land of Ser: 
luckily, I understood Coptic perfectly well that 
night. 

The Princess Hermonthis cried, in a voice sweet 
and vibrant as the tones of a crystal bell: 

“Well, my dear little foot, you always flee from 
me; yet I always took good care of you. I 
bathed you with perfumed water in a bowl of 
alabaster; I smoothed your heel with pumice- 
stone mixed with palm oil; your nails were cut 
with golden scissors and polished with a hippo¬ 
potamus tooth; I was careful to select tatbebs for 
you, painted and embroidered and turned up at 
the toes, which were the envy of all the young 
girls in Egypt: you wore on your great toe rings 
bearing the device of the sacred Scarabaeus; and 
you supported one of the lightest bodies that a 
lazy foot could sustain.” 

The foot replied, in a pouting and chagrined 
tone: 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


“You know well that I do not belong to myself 
any longer; I have been bought and paid for; 
the old merchant knew what he was about; he 
bore you a grudge for having refused to espouse 
him; this is an ill turn which he has done you. 
The Arab who violated your royal coffin in the 
subterranean pits of the necropolis of Thebes was 
sent thither by him: he desired to prevent you 
from being present at the reunion of the shadowy 
nations in the cities below. Have you five 
pieces of gold for my ransom? ” 

“Alas, no! My jewels, my rings, my purses of 
gold and silver, were all stolen from me,” an¬ 
swered the Princess Hermonthis, with a sob. 

“Princess,” I then exclaimed, “I never re¬ 
tained anybody’s foot unjustly; even though 
you have not got the five louis which it cost me, 
I present it to you gladly: I should feel unutter¬ 
ably wretched to think that I were the cause of 
so amiable a person as the Princess Hermonthis 
being lame.” 

I delivered this discourse in a royally gallant 
troubadour tone, which must have astonished the 
beautiful Egyptian girl. 

She turned a look of deepest gratitude upon 
me; and her eyes shone with bluish gleams of 
light. 

She took her foot—which surrendered itself 
willingly this time—like a woman about to put 
on her little shoe, and adjusted it to her leg with 
much skill. 

This operation over, she took a few steps about 
116 


The Mummy's Foot 


the room, as though to assure herself that she 
was really no longer lame. 

“Ah, how pleased my father will be!—he who 
was so unhappy because of my mutilation, and 
who from the moment of my birth set a whole 
nation at work to hollow me out a tomb so deep 
that he might preserve me intact until that last 
day, when souls must be weighed in the balance 
of Amenthi! Come with me to my father; he 
will receive you kindly; for you have given me 
back my foot.” 

I thought this proposition natural enough. I 
arrayed myself in a dressing-gown of large- 
flowered pattern, which lent me a very Pharaonic 
aspect; hurriedly put on a pair of Turkish slip¬ 
pers, and informed the Princess Hermonthis that 
1 was ready to follow her. 

Before starting, Hermonthis took from her 
neck the little idol of green paste and laid it on 
the scattered sheets of paper which covered the 
table. 

“ It is only fair,” she observed smilingly, “that 
I should replace your paper-weight.” 

She gave me her hand, which felt soft and cold, 
like the skin of a serpent; and we departed. 

We passed for some time with the velocity of 
an arrow through a fluid of grayish expanse, in 
which half-formed silhouettes flitted swiftly by 
us, to right and left. 

For an instant we saw only sky and sea. 

A few moments later obelisks commenced to 
tower in the distance: pylons and vast flights of 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


steps guarded by sphinxes became clearly out¬ 
lined against the horizon. 

We had reached our destination. 

The princess conducted me to the mountain of 
rose-coloured granite, in the face of which ap¬ 
peared an opening so narrow and low that it 
would have been difficult to distinguish it from 
the fissures in the rock, had not its location been 
marked by two stelas wrought with sculptures. 

Hermonthis kindled a torch and led the way 
before me. 

We traversed corridors hewn through the liv¬ 
ing rock; their walls, covered with hieroglyphics 
and paintings of allegorical processions, might 
well have occupied thousands of arms for thou¬ 
sands of years in their formation; these corridors, 
of interminable length, opened into square 
chambers, in the midst of which pits had been 
contrived, through which we descended by 
cramp-irons or spiral stairways; these pits again 
conducted us into other chambers, opening into 
other corridors, likewise decorated with painted 
sparrow-hawks, serpents coiled in circles, the 
symbols of the tau and pedum —prodigious works 
of art which no living eye can ever examine; 
interminable legends of granite which only the 
dead have time to read through all eternity. 

At last we found ourselves in a hall so vast, so 
enormous, so immeasurable, that the eye could 
not reach the limits; files of monstrous columns 
stretched far out of sight on every side, between 
which twinkled livid stars of yellowish flame— 
118 


The Mummy’s Foot 


points of light which revealed further depths 
incalculable in the darkness beyond. 

The Princess Hermonthis still held my hand, 
and graciously saluted the mummies of her 
acquaintance. 

My eyes became accustomed to the dim twi¬ 
light, and objects became discernible. 

I beheld the kings of the subterranean races 
seated upon thrones—grand old men, though 
dry, withered, wrinkled like parchment, and 
blackened with naphtha and bitumen—all wear¬ 
ing pshents of gold, and breastplates and gorgets 
glittering with precious stones; their eyes im¬ 
movably fixed like the eyes of sphinxes, and their 
long beards whitened by the snow of centuries. 
Behind them stood their peoples, in the stiff and 
constrained posture enjoined by Egyptian art, 
all eternally preserving the attitude prescribed 
by the hieratic code. Behind these nations, the 
cats, ibises, and crocodiles contemporary with 
them—rendered monstrous of aspect by their 
swathing bands—mewed, flapped their wings, or 
extended their jaws in a saurian giggle. 

All the Pharaohs were there—Cheops, Che- 
phrenes, Psammetichus, Sesostris, Amenotaph— 
all the dark rulers of the pyramids and syrinxes: 
on yet higher thrones sat Chronos and Xixou- 
thros, the latter contemporary with the deluge; 
and Tubal Cain, who reigned before it. 

The beard of King Xixouthros had grown seven 
times around the granite table, upon which he 
leaned, lost in deep reverie, and buried in dreams. 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Further back, through a dusty cloud, I behe T d 
dimly the seventy-two Pre-adamite Kings, with 
their seventy - two peoples — forever passed 
away. 

After permitting me to gaze upon this bewilder¬ 
ing spectacle a few moments, the Princess Her- 
monthis presented me to her father Pharaoh, 
who favoured me with a most gracious nod. 

‘ ‘ I have found my foot again! I have found 
my foot!” cried the Princess, clapping her little 
hands together with every sign of frantic joy: 
“it was this gentleman who restored it to me.” 

The races of Kemi, the races of Nahasi—all 
the black, bronzed, and copper-coloured nations 
repeated in chorus: 

“The Princess Hermonthis has found her foot 
again! ” 

Even Xixouthros himself was visibly affected. 

He raised his heavy eyelids, stroked his mous¬ 
tache with his fingers, and turned upon me a 
glance, weighty with centuries. 

“By Oms, the dog of Hell, and Tmei, daughter 
of the Sun and of Truth! this is a brave and 
worthy lad!” exclaimed Pharaoh, pointing to 
me with his sceptre, which was terminated with a 
lotus-flower. 

“What recompense do you desire?” 

Filled with that daring inspired by dreams in 
which nothing seems impossible, I asked him for 
the hand of the Princess Hermonthis—the hand 
seemed to me a very proper antithetic recom¬ 
pense for the foot. • 


120 


The Mummy’s Foot 


Pharaoh opened wide his great eyes of glass in 
astonishment at my witty request. 

“What country do you come from? and what 
is your age?” 

“I am a Frenchman; and I am twenty-seven 
years old, venerable Pharaoh.” 

“Twenty-seven years old! and he wishes to x 
espouse the Princess Hermonthis, who is thirty 
centuries old!” cried out at once all the Thrones 
and all the Circles of Nations. 

Only Hermonthis herself did not seem to think 
my request unreasonable. 

“If you were even only two thousand years 
old,” replied the ancient King, “I would willingly 
give you the Princess; but the disproportion is 
too great; and, besides, we must give our daugh¬ 
ters husbands who will last well: you do not 
know how to preserve yourselves any longer; 
even those who died only fifteen centuries ago 
are already no more than a handful of dust. Be¬ 
hold! my flesh is solid as basalt; my bones are 
bars of steel! 

“I shall be present on the last day of the world, 
with the same body and the same features which 
I had during my lifetime: my daughter Hermon¬ 
this will last longer than a statue of bronze. 

“Then the last particles of your dust will have 
been scattered abroad by the winds; and even 
Isis herself, who was able to find the atoms of 
Osiris, would scarce be able to recompose your 
being. 

“See how vigorous I yet remain, and how 


12 X 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


mighty is my grasp,” he added, shaking my hand 
in the English fashion with a strength that buried 
my rings in the flesh of my fingers. 

He squeezed me so hard that I awoke, and 
found my friend Alfred shaking me by the arm 
to make me get up. 

‘‘O you everlasting sleeper! Must I have you 
carried out into the middle of the street, and fire¬ 
works exploded in your ears? It is after noon; 
don’t you recollect your promise to take me with 
you to see M. Aguado’s Spanish pictures?” 

“God! I forgot all, all about it,” I answered, 
dressing myself hurriedly; “we will go there at 
once; I have the permit lying there on my desk.” 

I started to find it; but fancy my astonish¬ 
ment when I beheld, instead of the mummy’s 
foot I had purchased the evening before, the 
little green paste idol left in its place by the Prin¬ 
cess Hermonthis! 


J2J 


THE SONG OF TRIUMPHANT LOVE 

BY 

Ivan Sergeyevitch Turgenieff 

This is what I read in an old Italian manu¬ 
script : 

About the middle of the sixteenth century, 
there were living in Ferrara (it was at that time 
flourishing under the sceptre of its magnificent 
archdukes, the patrons of art and poetry) two 
young men named Fabio and Muzzio. They 
were of the same age, and of near kinship, and 
were scarcely ever apart; the warmest affections 
had united them from early childhood; the simi¬ 
larity of their positions strengthened the bond. 
Both belonged to old families; both were rich, 
independent, and without family ties; tastes 
and inclinations were alike in both. Muzzio 
was devoted to music; Fabio to painting. 
They were looked upon with pride by the whole 
of Ferrara, as ornaments of the court, society, 
and city. In appearance, however, they were 
not alike, though both were distinguished by 
a graceful, youthful beauty. Fabio was taller, 
fair of face, and flaxen of hair, and he had blue 
eyes. Muzzio, on the other hand, had a swarthy 
face and black hair, and in his dark-brown eyes 
there was not the merry light, nor On his lips the 


123 


Masterpieces of Fiction • 


genial smile of Fabio; his thick eyebrows over¬ 
hung narrow eyelids, while Fabio’s golden eye¬ 
brows formed delicate half-circles on his pure, 
smooth brow. In conversation, too, Muzzio was 
less animated. For all that, the two friends were 
alike looked upon with favour by ladies, as well 
they might be, being models of chivalrous court¬ 
liness and generosity. 

At the same time there was living in Ferrara 
a girl named Valeria. She was considered one 
of the greatest beauties in the town, though it 
was very seldom possible to see her, as she led a 
retired life, and never went out except to church, 
and on great holidays for a walk. She lived 
with her mother, a widow of noble family though 
of small fortune, who had no other children. In 
every one whom Valeria met she inspired a sen¬ 
sation of involuntary admiration, and an equally 
involuntary tenderness and respect, so modest 
was her mien, so little, it seemed, was she aware 
of all the power of her own charms. Some, it is 
true, found her a little pale; her eyes, almost 
always cast down, expressed a certain shyness, 
even timidity; her lips rarely smiled, and then 
only faintly; her voice scarcely any one had 
heard. But the rumour went that it was most 
beautiful, and that, shut up in her own room, in 
the early morning when everything still slum¬ 
bered in the town, she loved to sing old songs to 
the sound of the lute, on which she herself used 
to play. In spite of her pallor, Valeria was 
blooming with health; and even old people, as 
124 


The Song of Triumphant Love 


they gazed on her, could not but think, "Oh, 
how happy the youth for whom that pure maiden 
bud, still enfolded in its petals, will one day 
open into full flower!” 

Fabio and Muzzio saw Valeria for the first 
time at a magnificent public festival, celebrated 
at the command of the Archduke of Ferrara, 
Ercol, son of the celebrated Lucrezia Borgia, in 
honour of some illustrious grandees who had 
come from Paris on the invitation of the Arch¬ 
duchess, daughter of the French king, Louis XII. 
Valeria was sitting beside her mother on an ele¬ 
gant tribune, built after a design of Palladio, in 
the principal square of Ferrara, for the most 
honourable ladies in the town. Both Fabio 
and Muzzio fell passionately in love with her on 
that day; and as they never had any secrets 
from £ach other, each of them soon knew what 
was passing in his friend’s heart. They agreed 
together that both should try to get to know 
Valeria; and if she should deign to choose one of 
them, the other should submit without a murmur 
to her decision. A few weeks later, thanks to 
the excellent repute they deservedly enjoyed, 
they succeeded in penetrating into the widow’s 
house; difficult though it was to obtain an entry 
into it, she permitted them to visit her. 

From that time forward, they were able 
to see Valeria almost every day, and to converse 
with her; and every day the passion kindled 
in the hearts of both young men grew stronger 
and stronger. Valeria, however, showed ilo 
125 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


preference for either of them, though their society 
was obviously agreeable to her. With Muzzio, 
she occupied herself with music; but she talked 
more with Fabio, and with him she was less timid. 
At last they resolved once for all to learn their 
fate, and sent a letter to Valeria, in which they 
begged her to be open with them, and to say to 
which she would be ready to give her hand. 
Valeria showed this letter to her mother, and 
declared that she was willing to remain unmar¬ 
ried, but, if her mother considered it time for 
her to enter upon matrimony, then she woulc 
marry whichever her mother’s choice should fix 
upon. The excellent widow shed a few tears at 
the thought of parting from her beloved child; 
there was, however, no good ground for refusing 
the suitors, as she considered either of them 
equally worthy of her daughter’s hand. But 
as she secretly preferred Fabio, and suspected 
that Valeria liked him the better, she fixed upon 
him. The next day Fabio heard of his happy 
fate, while all that was left for Muzzio was to 
keep his word, and submit. 

And this he did; but to be the witness of the 
triumph of his friend and rival was more than 
he could bear. He promptly sold the greater 
part of his property, and, collecting some thou¬ 
sands of ducats, he set off on a far journey to the 
East. As he said farewell to Fabio, he told him 
that he should not return till he felt that the last 
traces of passion had vanished from his heart. 
It was painful to Fabio to part from the friend 
126 


The Song of Triumphant Love 


of his childhood and youth; but the joyous an¬ 
ticipation of approaching bliss soon swallowed 
up all other sensations, and he gave himself up 
wholly to the transports of successful love. 

Shortly after, he celebrated his nuptials with 
Valeria, and only then learned the full worth of 
the treasure it had been his fortune to obtain. 
He had a charming villa, shut in by a shady 
garden, a short distance from Ferrara; he moved 
thither with his wife and her mother. Then a 
time of happiness began for them. Married life 
brought out in a new and enchanting light all the 
perfections of Valeria. Fabio became an artist 
of distinction—no longer an amateur, but a real 
master. Valeria’s mother rejoiced, and thanked 
God as she looked upon the happy pair. Four 
years flew by unperceived, like a happy dream. 
One thing only was wanting to the young couple, 
one lack they mourned over as a sorrow: they 
had no children. But they had not given up all 
hope of them. At the end of the fourth year, 
they were overtaken by a great, this time a real 
sorrow: Valeria’s mother died after an illness of 
a few days. 

Many tears were shed by Valeria; for a long 
time she could not accustom herself to the 
loss. But another year went by; life again 
asserted its rights, and flowed along its former 
channels. And behold! one fine summer even¬ 
ing, unexpectedly to every one, Muzzio returned 
to Ferrara. 


127 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


During the whole space of five years that had 
elapsed since his departure, no one had heard 
anything of him; all talk about him had died 
away, as if he had vanished from the face of the 
earth. When Fabio met his friend in one of the 
streets of Ferrara, he almost cried out aloud, 
first in alarm and then in delight, and he at once 
invited him to his villa. There happened to be 
in his garden there a spacious pavilion, apart 
from the house, and he proposed to his friend 
that he should establish himself in this pavilion. 
Muzzio agreed, and moved thither the same day 
together with his servant, a dumb Malay— 
dumb, but not deaf, and indeed, to judge by the 
alertness of his expression, a very intelligent 
man. His tongue had been cut out. Muzzio 
brought with him dozens of boxes, filled with 
treasures of all sorts collected by him in the 
course of his prolonged travels. Valeria was 
delighted with Muzzio’s return; and he greeted 
her with cheerful friendliness, but composure. 
It could be seen in every action that he had kept 
the promise given to JPabio. During the day, 
he arranged everything in complete order in his 
pavilion; aided by his Malay, he unpacked the 
curiosities he had brought—rugs, silken stuffs, 
velvet and brocaded garments, weapons, goblets, 
dishes and bowls decorated with enamel, things 
made of gold and silver, and inlaid with pearl 
and turquoise, carved boxes of jasper and ivory, 
cut bottles, spices, incense, skins of wild beasts 
and feathers of unknown birds, and a number 
128 


The Song of Triumphant Love 


of other things the very use of which seemed 
mysterious and incomprehensible. 

Among all these precious things there was a 
rich pearl necklace, bestowed upon Muzzio by the 
King of Persia for some great and secret serv¬ 
ice; he asked permission of Valeria to put this 
necklace with his own hand about her neck; she 
was struck by its great weight and a sort of 
strange heat in it—it seemed to bum her skin. 
In the evening after dinner, as they sat on the 
terrace of the villa in the shade of the oleanders 
and laurels, Muzzio began to relate his adven¬ 
tures. He told of distant lands he had seen, of 
cloud-topped mountains and deserts, rivers, 
lakes, seas; he told of immense buildings and 
temples, of trees a thousand years old, of birds 
and flowers of the colours of the rainbow; he 
named the cities and the peoples he had visited 
—their very names seemed like a fairy tale. 
The whole East was familiar to Muzzio; he had 
traversed Persia, Arabia, where the horses are 
nobler and more beautiful than any living 
creature; he had penetrated into the very heart 
of India, where the race of men grow like stately 
trees; he had reached the boundaries of China 
and Thibet, where the living god, called the 
Grand Lama, dwells on earth in the guise of a 
silent man with narrow eyes. 

Marvellous were his tales. Both Fabio and 
Valeria listened to him as if enchanted. Muzzio’s 
features had really changed very little; his face, 
swarthy from childhood, burned under tjie rays 
129 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


of a hotter sun, had grown darker still, his eyes 
seemed more deep-set than before—and that was 
all; but the expression of his face had become 
different: concentrated and dignified, it showed 
no added vivacity when he recounted the 
dangers he had met by night in forests that 
resounded with the roar of tigers, or by day on 
solitary ways where savage fanatics lay in wait 
for travellers, to slay them in honour of their 
iron goddess who demands human sacrifices. 
And Muzzio’s voice had grown deeper and more 
even; his hands, his whole body, had lost the 
freedom of gesture peculiar to the Italian race. 
With the aid of his servant, the obsequiously 
alert Malay, he showed his hosts a few of the 
feats he had learned from Indian Brahmans. 
Thus, for instance, having first hidden himself 
behind a curtain, he suddenly appeared sitting 
in the air cross-legged, the tips of his fingers 
pressed lightly on a bamboo cane placed ver¬ 
tically, which astonished Fabio not a little and 
positively alarmed Valeria. “Isn’t he a sor¬ 
cerer?” was her thought. When he proceeded, 
piping on a little flute, to call some tame snakes 
out of a covered basket, where their dark flat 
heads with quivering tongues appeared under a 
parti-coloured cloth, Valeria was terrified, and 
begged Muzzio to put away those loathsome hor¬ 
rors as soon as possible. At supper, from a long, 
round-necked flagon, Muzzio regaled his friends 
with wine of Shiraz; it was of extraordinary 
fragrance and thickness, of a golden colour 


130 


The Song of Triumphant Love 


with a shade of green in it, and it shone with a 
strange brightness as it was poured into the tiny 
jasper goblets. In taste, it was unlike European 
wines: it was very sweet and spicy, and, drunk 
slowly in small draughts, produced a sensation of 
pleasant drowsiness in all the limbs. Muzzio 
made both Fabio and Valeria drink a goblet of 
it, and he drank one himself. Bending over her 
goblet, he murmured something, moving his 
fingers as he did so. Valeria noticed this; but as 
in all Muzzio’s doings, in his whole behaviour, 
there was something strange and out of common, 
she only thought, “Can he have adopted some 
new faith in India, or is that the custom there?” 
Then, after a short silence, she asked him whether 
he had persevered with music during his travels ? 
Muzzio, in reply, bade the Malay bring his Indian 
violin. It was like those of to-day, but instead 
of four strings it had only three; the upper part 
of it was covered with a bluish snake-skin, and 
the slender bow of reed was in the form of a half¬ 
moon, and on its extreme end glittered a pointed 
diamond. 

Muzzio played first some mournful airs, 
national songs as he called them, strange and 
even barbarous to an Italian ear; the sound of 
the metallic strings was plaintive and feeble. 
But when Muzzio began the last song, it sud¬ 
denly gained force, and rang out under the wide 
sweeps of the bow—flowed out, exquisitely 
twisting and coiling like the snake that covered 
the violin-top; and such fire, such triumphant 

131 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


bliss, glowed and burned in this melody that 
Fabio and Valeria felt wrung to the heart, and 
tears came into their eyes—while Muzzio, his head 
bent and pressed close to the violin, his cheeks 
pale, his eyebrows drawn together into a single 
straight line, seemed still more concentrated and 
solemn; and the diamond at the end of the bow 
flashed sparks of light as if it, too, were kindled 
by the fire of the divine song. When Muzzio had 
finished, still keeping fast the violin between his 
chin and his shoulder, he dropped the hand that 
held the bow—“What is that ? What is that you 
have been playing to us?” cried Fabio. Valeria 
uttered not a word, but her whole being seemed 
to echo her husband’s question. Muzzio laid 
the violin on the table, and, slightly tossing back 
his hair, he said with a polite smile, “That—that 
melody, that song, I heard once in the island of 
Ceylon. That song is known there among the 
people as ‘The Song of Happy, Triumphant 
Love.’ ” 

“Play it again,” Fabio was murmuring. 

“No, it can’t be played again,” answered 
Muzzio. “Besides, it is now too late. Signora 
Valeria ought to be at rest; and it’s time for me 
too—I am weary.” During the whole day 
Muzzio had treated Valeria with respectful 
simplicity, as a friend of former days; but as 
he went out he clasped her hand very tightly, 
squeezing his fingers on her palm, and looking 
so intently into her face that, though she did not 
raise her eyelids, she yet felt the look on her 


132 


The Song of Triumphant Love 


suddenly flaming cheeks. She said nothing to 
Muzzio, but jerked away her hand, and, when 
he was gone, she gazed at the door through which 
he had passed out. She remembered how she 
had been afraid of him a little even in the old 
days, and now she was overcome by perplexity. 
Muzzio went off to his pavilion: the husband 
and wife retired to their bedroom. 

Valeria did not quickly fall asleep; there was 
a faint and languid fever in her blood and a 
slight ringing in her ears—from that strange 
wine, as she supposed, and perhaps, too, from 
Muzzio’s stories, from his playing the violin. 
Towards morning she did at last fall asleep, and 
she had an extraordinary dream. 

She dreamed that she was going into a large 
room with a low ceiling. Such a room she 
had never seen in her life. All the walls were 
covered with tiny blue tiles with gold lines on 
them; slender carved pillars of alabaster sup¬ 
ported the marble ceiling; the ceiling itself and 
the pillars seemed half transparent. A pale, 
rosy glow penetrated from all sides into the 
room, throwing a mysterious and uniform light 
on all the objects in it; brocaded cushions lay 
on a narrow rug in the very middle of the floor, 
which was smooth as a mirror. In the corners, 
almost unseen, were smoking lofty censers of 
the shape of monstrous beasts; there was no 
window anywhere; a door hung with a velvet 
curtain stood dark and silent in a recess in the 
wall. And suddenly this curtain slowly glided, 


i33 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


moved aside—and in came Muzzio. He bowed, 
opened his arms, laughed. His fierce arms en¬ 
folded Valeria’s waist; his parched lips burned 
her all over—she fell backward on the cushions. 

Moaning with horror, after long struggles 
Valeria awoke. Still not realising where she 
was and what was happening to her, she raised 
herself on her bed and looked around. A 
tremor ran over her whole body. Fabio was 
lying beside her. He was asleep; but his face, 
in the light of the brilliant full moon looking 
in at the window, was pale as a corpse’s—it was 
sadder than the face of death. Valeria wakened 
her husband, and instantly he looked at her. 

“What is the matter?” he cried. 

“I had—I had—a fearful dream,” she whis¬ 
pered, still shuddering all over. 

But at that instant came floating powerful 
sounds from the direction of the pavilion, and 
both Fabio and Valeria recognised the melody 
that Muzzio had played to them, calling it the 
song of blissful, triumphant love. Fabio looked 
in perplexity at Valeria. She closed her eyes, 
turned away, and both holding their breath 
heard the song out to the end. As the last 
note died away, the moon passed behind a cloud, 
and it was suddenly dark in the room. Both 
the young people let their heads sink on the 
pillows without exchanging a word, and neither 
of them noticed when the other fell asleep. 

The next morning Muzzio came in to break¬ 
fast; he seemed happy, and greeted Valeria 

134 


The Song of Triumphant Love 


cheerfully. She answered him in confusion— 
stole a glance at him, and felt frightened at the 
sight of that serene, happy face, those piercing, 
inquisitive eyes. Muzzio was beginning again 
to tell a story, but Fabio interrupted him at 
the first word. 

“You could not sleep, I see, in your new quar¬ 
ters. My wife and I heard you playing last 
night’s song.” 

“Yes! Did you hear it?” said Muzzio. 
“I played it, indeed; but I had been asleep 
before that, and I had a wonderful dream, too.” 

Valeria was on the alert. “What sort of a 
dream?” asked Fabio. 

“I dreamed,” answered Muzzio, not taking 
his eyes off Valeria, “that I was entering a 
spacious apartment with a ceiling decorated 
in oriental fashion. Carved columns supported 
the roof, the walls were covered with tiles, and, 
though there were neither windows nor sky¬ 
lights, the whole room was filled with a rosy 
light, just as if it were built of transparent 
stone. In the comers, Chinese censers were 
smoking, on the floor lay brocaded cushions 
along a narrow rug. I went in through a door 
covered with a curtain, and at another door, 
just opposite, appeared a woman whom I once 
loved. And so beautiful she seemed to me that 
I was all aflame with my old love——” 

Muzzio broke off significantly. Valeria sat 
motionless, and only gradually she turned white 
—and then she drew her breath more slowly. 

135 



Masterpieces of Fiction 


“Then,” continued Muzzio, “I awoke, and 
played that song.” 

“But who was the woman?” asked Fabio. 

“Who was she? The wife of an Indian. I 
met her in the town of Delhi. She is not alive 
now. She died.” 

“And her husband?” asked Fabio, not know¬ 
ing why he asked the question. 

“Her husband, too, they say, is dead. I soon 
lost sight of them both.” 

“Strange!” observed Fabio. “My wife, too, 
had an extraordinary dream last night”— 
Muzzio gazed intently at Valeria—“which she 
did not tell me,” added Fabio. 

But at this point Valeria got up, and went 
out of the room. Immediately after breakfast, 
Muzzio, too, went away, explaining that he had 
to be in Ferrara on business, and that he would 
not be back before evening. 

A few weeks before Muzzio’s return, Fabio 
had begun a portrait of his wife, depicting 
her with the attributes of Saint Cecilia. He 
had made considerable advance in his art; the 
renowned Luini, a pupil of Leonardo da Vinci, 
used to come to him at Ferrara, and, while aid¬ 
ing him with his own counsels, would also pass 
on the precepts of the great master. The por¬ 
trait was almost completely finished; all that 
was left was to add a few strokes to the face, 
and Fabio might well be proud of his creation. 
After seeing Muzzio off on his way to Ferrara, 
136 


The Song of Triumphant Love 


he turned into his studio, where Valeria was 
usually waiting for him; but he did not find her 
there; he called her, but she did not respond. 
Fabio was overcome by a secret uneasiness, and 
began looking for her. She was nowhere in the 
house; Fabio ran into the garden, and there, 
in one of the more secluded walks, he caught 
sight of Valeria. She was sitting on a seat, her 
head drooping upon her bosom, and her hands 
folded on her knees; while behind her, peeping 
out of the dark green of a cypress, a marble 
satyr, with a distorted, malignant grin on his 
face, was putting his pouting lips to a Pan’s 
pipe. Valeria was visibly relieved at her hus¬ 
band’s appearance, and to his agitated ques¬ 
tions she replied that she had a slight head¬ 
ache, but that it was of no consequence, and 
she was ready to come to him. Fabio led her 
to the studio, posed her, and took up his brush; 
but, to his great vexation, he could not finish 
the face as he would have liked to. And not 
because Valeria merely looked somewhat pale 
and exhausted—no; but the pure, saintly ex¬ 
pression in her face, which he liked so well, and 
which had given him the idea of painting her 
as Saint Cecilia, he could not find in it that day. 
He flung down the brush at last, told his wife 
that he was not in the mood for work, and that 
he would not prevent her from lying down, as 
she did not look at all well, and put the canvas 
with its face to the wall. Valeria agreed with 
him that she ought to rest, and, repeating her 


137 


Masterpieces of Fiction 

complaints of a headache, withdrew into her 
bedroom. 

Fabio remained in the studio. He felt a 
strange, confused sensation incomprehensible 
to himself. Muzzio’s stay under his roof, to 
which he, Fabio, had himself urgently invited 
him, had become irksome to him. And not 
that he was jealous—could any one have been 
jealous of Valeria?—but he did not recognise 
his former comrade in his friend. All that was 
strange, unknown, and new which Muzzio had 
brought with him from those distant lands— 
and which seemed to have entered into his very 
flesh and blood—all these magical feats, songs, 
strange drinks, this dumb Malay, even the spicy 
fragrance diffused by Muzzio’s garments, hair, 
breath—all this inspired in Fabio a sensation 
akin to distrust, possibly even to timidity. And 
why did that Malay, while waiting at the table, 
stare with such disagreeable intentness at him, 
Fabio? Really, one might suppose that he 
understood Italian. Muzzio had said of him 
that, in losing his tongue, this Malay had made 
a great sacrifice, and in return he was now pos¬ 
sessed of great power. What sort of power? 
And how could he have obtained it at the cost 
of his tongue? All this was very strange, very 
incomprehensible! 

Fabio went into his wife’s room; she was 
lying on the bed, dressed, but was not asleep. 
Hearing his steps, she started, then again seemed 
delighted to see him, just as in the garden. 

138 


The Song of Triumphant Love 


Fabio sat down beside the bed, took Valeria 
by the hand, and, after a short silence, 
asked her what was the extraordinary dream 
that had frightened her so the previous 
night? And was it of the same sort at 
all as the dream that Muzzio had described? 
Valeria crimsoned, and said hurriedly, “Oh, 
no, no! I saw—a sort of monster that was 
trying to tear me to pieces.” “A monster 
in the shape of a man?” asked Fabio. “No, 
a beast, a beast!” Valeria turned away, 
and hid her burning face in the pillows. 
Fabio held his wife’s hand some time longer; 
then silently he raised it to his lips and 
withdrew. 

Both the young people passed the day with 
heavy hearts. Something seemed hanging over 
their heads, but what it was they could not tell. 
They wanted to be together, as if some danger 
threatened them; but what to say to one an¬ 
other they did not know. Fabio made an ef¬ 
fort to take up the portrait, and to read Ariosto, 
whose poem had appeared not long before in 
Ferrara, and was now making much noise all 
over Italy; but nothing was of any use. Late 
in the evening, just at supper-time, Muzzio 
returned. 

He seemed composed and cheerful, but he 
told them little; he devoted himself rather to 
questioning Fabio about their common acquaint¬ 
ances, about the German war, and the Emperor 
Charles; he spoke of his own desire to visit 


i39 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Rome, to see the new Pope. He again offered 
Valeria some Shiraz wine, and, on her refusal, 
observed as if to himself, “No, it’s not needed, 
to be sure.” Going back with his wife to his 
room, Fabio soon fell asleep; and, waking up 
an hour later, felt a conviction that no one was 
sharing his bed; Valeria was not beside him. 
He got up quickly, and at the same moment 
saw his wife in her night attire coming out of 
the garden into the room. The moon was shin¬ 
ing brightly, though not long before a light rain 
had been falling. With eyes closed, with a look 
of mysterious horror on her immovable face, 
Valeria approached the bed, and, feeling for it 
with her hands stretched out before her, lay 
down hurriedly and in silence. Fabio turned 
to her with a question, but she made no reply; 
she seemed to be asleep. He touched her, and 
felt on her dress and on her hair drops of rain, 
and, on the soles of her bare feet, little grains 
of sand. Then he leaped up, and ran into the 
garden through the half-open door. The crude 
brilliance of the moon wrapped every object in 
light. Fabio looked about him, and perceived 
on the sand of the path prints of two pairs of 
feet—one pair was bare; and these prints led 
to a bower of jasmine, on one side, between the 
pavilion and the house. He stood still in per¬ 
plexity, when, suddenly, once more he heard 
the strains of the song he had listened to the 
night before. Fabio shuddered, ran into the 
pavilion—Muzzio was standing in the jniddte 


140 


The Song of Triumphant Love 


of the room, playing on the violin. Fabio 
rushed up to him. 

“You have been in the garden; your clothes 
are wet with rain!” 

“No — I don’t know — I think I have 

not been out-” Muzzio answered slowly, 

seemingly amazed at Fabio’s entrance and 
excitement. 

Fabio seized him by the hand. “And why 
are you playing that melody again? Have you 
had a dream again?” 

Muzzio glanced at Fabio with the same look 
of amazement, and said nothing. 

“Answer me!” 

“The moon stood high like a round shield— 
Like a snake, the river shines— 

The friend’s awake, the foe’s asleep— 

The bird is in the falcon’s clutches—Help!” 

muttered Muzzio, humming to himself as if in 
delirium. 

Fabio stepped back a couple of paces, stared 
at Muzzio, pondered a moment, and went back 
to the house, to his bedroom. 

Valeria, her head sunk on her shoulder, and 
her hands hanging lifelessly, was in a heavy 
sleep. He could not quickly awaken her, but 
the moment she saw him she flung herself on 
his neck, and embraced him convulsively; she 
was trembling all over. “What is the matter, 
my precious, what is it?” Fabio kept repeating, 
trying to soothe her. But she still lay lifeless 
141 



Masterpieces of Fiction 


on his breast. “Ah, what fearful dreams I 
have!” she whispered, hiding her face against 
him. Fabio would have questioned her, but 
she only shuddered. The window-panes were 
flushed with the light of dawn, when at last she 
fell asleep in his arms. 

The next day Muzzio disappeared at early 
morning, while Valeria informed her husband 
that she intended to go away to a neighbouring 
monastery, where lived her spiritual father, an 
old and austere monk, in whom she placed un¬ 
bounded confidence. To Fabio’s inquiries, she 
replied that she wanted by confession to relieve 
her soul, which was weighed down by the excep¬ 
tional impressions of the last few days. As he 
looked upon Valeria’s sunken face and listened 
to her faint voice, Fabio approved of her plan; 
the worthy Father Lorenzo might give her valu¬ 
able advice, and might disperse her doubts. 
Under the escort of four attendants, Valeria 
set out for the monastery, while Fabio remained 
at home, and wandered about the garden until 
his wife’s return, trying to comprehend what 
had happened to her, a victim to constant fear 
and wrath, and to the pain of undefined sus¬ 
picion. More than once he went up to the 
pavilion; but Muzzio had not returned, and 
the Malay gazed at Fabio like a statue, obse¬ 
quiously bowing his head, with a well-dissembled 
—so at least it seemed to Fabio—smile on his 
bronzed face. Meanwhile Valeria had, in con¬ 
fession, told everything to her priest, not so 
142 


The Song of Triumphant Love 


much with shame as with horror. The priest 
heard her attentively, gave her his blessing, 
absolved her from her involuntary sin, but to 
himself he thought: “Sorcery—the arts of the 
devil—the matter can’t be left so ’’ ; and he 
returned with Valeria to her villa, as if with the 
aim of completely pacifying and reassuring her. 
At the sight of the priest, Fabio was thrown 
into some agitation; but the experienced old 
man had thought out beforehand how he must 
treat him. 

When he was left alone with Fabio he did 
not, of course, betray the secrets of the con¬ 
fessional, but he advised him, if possible, to get 
rid of the guest they had invited to their house, 
since by his stories, his songs, and his whole 
behaviour, he was troubling the imagination of 
Valeria. Moreover, in the old man’s opinion, 
Muzzio had not, he remembered, been very 
firm in the faith in former days, and, having 
spent so long a time in lands unenlightened by 
the truths of Christianity, he might well have 
brought thence the contagion of false doctrine, 
indeed, might even have become conversant 
with secret magic arts; and therefore, though 
long friendship had indeed its claim, still a wise 
prudence pointed to the necessity of separation, 
fabio fully agreed with the excellent monk. 
Valeria was even joyful when her husband 
communicated to her the priest’s counsel; and, 
sent on his way with the cordial good-will of 
both the young people, loaded with rich gifts 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


for the monastery and the poor, Father Lorenzo 
returned home. 

Fabio intended to have an explanation with 
Muzzio immediately after supper; but his 
strange guest did not return to supper. Then 
Fabio decided to defer his conversation with 
Muzzio until the following day; and both the 
young people retired to rest. 

Valeria soon fell asleep; but Fabio could not 
sleep. In the stillness of the night, everything 
he had seen, everything he had felt, presented 
itself more vividly; he put to himself still more 
insistently questions to which, as before, he 
could find no answer. Had Muzzio really be¬ 
come a sorcerer, and had he already poisoned 
Valeria? She was ill—but what was her dis¬ 
ease? While he lay, his head in his hand, hold¬ 
ing his feverish breath, and given up to painful 
reflection, the moon rose again upon a cloud¬ 
less sky; and, together with the beams through 
the half-transparent window-panes, there be¬ 
gan, from the direction of the pavilion—or was 
it Fabio’s fancy?—to come a breath, like a light, 
fragrant current—then an urgent, passionate 
whisper was heard—and at that instant he ob¬ 
served that Valeria was beginning faintly to 
stir. He started, looked; she rose up, slid first 
one foot, then the other, out of the bed, and 
like one bewitched of the moon, her sightless 
eyes fixed lifelessly before her, her hands 
stretched out, she began moving toward the 
garden! Fabio instantly ran out of the other 


144 


The Song of Triumphant Love 


door of the room, and, running quickly around 
the comer of the house, bolted the door that 
led into the garden. He had scarcely time 
to grasp at the bolt, when he felt some one 
trying to open the door from the inside, press¬ 
ing against it again and again, and then 
there was the sound of piteous, passionate 
moans. 

“But Muzzio has not come back from the 
town!” flashed through Fabio’s head, and he 
rushed into the pavilion. 

What did he see? 

Coming toward him, along the path dazzlingly 
lighted by the moon’s rays, was Muzzio—he, 
too, moving like one moonstruck, his hands 
held out before him, his eyes open but unseeing. 
Fabio ran up to him, but he, not heeding him, 
moved on, treading evenly, step by step, and 
his rigid face smiled in the moonlight like the 
Malay’s. Fabio would have called him by his 
name—but at tha-t instant he heard behind him 
in the house the creaking of a window. He 
looked around. 

Yes, the window of the bedroom was open 
from top to bottom, and putting one foot over 
the sill, Valeria stood in the window—her hands 
seemed to be seeking Muzzio—she seemed striv¬ 
ing all over toward him. 

With a sudden inrush, unutterable fury 
filled Fabio’s breast. “Accursed sorcerer!” he 
shrieked furiously, and seizing Muzzio by the 
tfiroqt with one hand, with the other he felt for 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


the dagger in his girdle, and plunged the blade 
into his side up to the hilt. 

Muzzio uttered a shrill scream, and clapping 
his hand to the wound ran back to the pavilion. 
But at the very same instant when Fabio stabbed 
him, Valeria screamed just as shrilly, and fell 
to the earth like grass before the scythe. 

Fabio flew to her, raised her up, carried 
her to the bed, and began to speak to her. 
She lay a long time motionless, but at last 
she opened her eyes, heaved a deep, broken, 
blissful sigh, like one just rescued from immi¬ 
nent death, saw her husband, and twining her 
arms about his neck, crept close to him. “You, 
you, it is you!” she faltered. Gradually her 
hands loosened their hold, her head sank back, 
and murmuring with a blissful smile, “Thank 
God, it is all over—but how weary I am!” she 
fell into a sound but not heavy sleep. 

Fabio sank down beside her bed, and never 
taking his eyes from off her pale and sunken 
but already calmer face, began reflecting on 
what had happened, and also how he ought to 
act now. What steps was he to take? If he 
had killed Muzzio—and, remembering how 
deeply the dagger had gone in, he could have 
no doubt of it—it could not be hidden. He 
would have to bring it to the knowledge of the 
archduke, of the judges—but how explain, how 
describe, such an incomprehensible affair? He, 
Fabio, had killed in his own house his own 
kinsman, his dearest friend! They will inquire, 
146 


The Song of Triumphant Love 


what for, on what grounds?—But if Muzzio 
were not dead? Fabio could not bear to remain 
longer in uncertainty, and satisfying himself 
that Valeria was asleep, he cautiously got up 
from his chair, went out of the house, and made 
his way to the pavilion. Everything was still 
in it; only, in one window, a light was visible. 
With a sinking heart, he opened the outer door 
(there was still the print of blood-stained fingers 
on it, and there were black drops of gore on the 
sand of the path), passed through the first dark 
room—and stood still on the threshold, over¬ 
whelmed with amazement. 

In the middle of the room, on a Persian rug, 
with a brocaded cushion under his head, and 
all his limbs stretched out straight, lay Muzzio, 
covered with a wide, red shawl, with a black 
pattern on it. His face, yellow as wax, with 
closed eyes and bluish eyelids, was turned to¬ 
ward the ceiling; no breathing could be dis¬ 
cerned: he seemed a corpse. At his feet knelt 
the Malay, also wrapped in a red shawl. He 
was holding in his left hand the branch of some 
unknown plant, like a fern, and, bending slightly 
forward, was gazing fixedly at his master. A 
small torch, fixed on the floor, burned with a 
greenish flame, and was the only light in the 
room. The flame did not flicker or smoke. The 
Malay did not stir at Fabio’s entrance; he merely 
turned his eyes upon him, and again bent them 
upon Muzzio. From time to time he raised 
and lowered the branch, and waved it in the air, 

147 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


and his dumb lips slowly parted and moved, 
as if uttering soundless words. On the floor 
between the Malay and Muzzio lay the dagger 
with which Fabio had stabbed his friend; the 
Malay struck one blow with the branch on the 
blood-stained blade. A minute passed—then 
another. Fabio approached the Malay, and, 
stooping down to him, asked in an undertone, 
“Is he dead?” The Malay bent his head from 
above downward, and, disentangling his right 
hand from his shawl, he pointed imperiously 
to the door. Fabio would have repeated his 
question, but the gesture of the commanding 
hand was repeated, and Fabio went out, indig¬ 
nant and wondering, but obedient. 

He found Valeria sleeping as before, and with 
an even more tranquil expression on her face. 
He did not undress, but seated himself by the 
window, his head in his hand, and once more 
sank into thought. The rising sun found him 
still in the same place. Valeria was not yet 
awake. 

Fabio intended to wait till she awakened, and 
then to set off to Ferrara, when suddenly some 
one tapped lightly on the bedroom door. Fabio 
went out, and saw his old steward Antonio. 

“Signor,” began the old man, “the Malay has 
just informed me that Signor Muzzio has been 
taken ill, and wishes to be moved with all his 
belongings to the town; and that he begs you 
to let him have servants to assist in packing his 
things; and that, at dinner-time, you would 
148 


The Song of Triumphant Love 


send packhorses and saddle-horses, and a few 
attendants for the journey. Do you permit 
it?” ‘‘The Malay informed you of this?” asked 
Fabio. ‘‘In what manner? Why, he is dumb.” 
‘‘Here, Signor, is the paper on which he wrote 
all this in our language, and very correctly, too.” 
‘‘And Muzzio, you say, is ill?” ‘‘Yes, he is 
very ill, and can see no one.” ‘‘Have they 
sent for a doctor?” ‘‘No; the Malay forbade 
it.” ‘‘And was it the Malay who wrote you 
this?” ‘‘Yes, it was he.” Fabio did not speak 
for a moment. ‘‘Well, then, arrange it all,” he 
said at last. Antonio withdrew. 

Fabio looked after his servant in bewilder¬ 
ment. ‘‘Then he is not dead?” he thought— 
and he did not know whether to rejoice or be 
sorry. “Ill?” But a few hours ago it was a 
corpse he had looked upon! 

Fabio returned to Valeria. She waked up, 
and raised her head. The husband and wife 
exchanged a long look full of significance. ‘‘He 
is gone?” Valeria said suddenly. Fabio shud¬ 
dered. ‘‘How gone? Do you mean-•” ‘‘Is 

he gone away?” she continued. A load fell 
from Fabio’s heart. ‘‘Not yet, but he is going 
to-day.” ‘‘And I shall never, never see him 
again?” ‘‘Never.” ‘‘And these dreams will 
not come again?” “No.” Valeria heaved a 
sigh of relief; a blissful smile once more ap¬ 
peared on her lips. She held out both hands 
to her husband. ‘‘And we will never speak of 
him—never; do you hear, my dear one? And 


149 



Masterpieces of Fiction 


I will not leave my room till he is gone. And 
do you now send my maids to me—but stay: 
take away that thing! ” She pointed to the pearl 
necklace lying on a little bedside table, the neck¬ 
lace given her by Muzzio. Throw it at once 
into our deepest well. Embrace me. I am 
your Valeria; and do not come to me—till 
he has gone.” Fabio took the necklace—the 
pearls, he fancied, looked tarnished—and did as 
his wife had directed. Then he fell to wandering 
about the garden, looking from a distance at 
the pavilion, about which the bustle of prepa¬ 
ration for departure was beginning. Servants 
were bringing out boxes and loading the horses 
—but the Malay was not among them. An 
irresistible impulse drew Fabio to look once 
• more upon what was going on inside of the pa¬ 
vilion. He recollected that there was at the 
back a secret door, by which he could reach the 
inner room where Muzzio had been lying in the 
morning. He stole round to the door, found it 
unlocked, and, parting the folds of a heavy cur¬ 
tain, turned a faltering glance upon the room 
within. 

Muzzio was not now lying on the rug. Dressed 
as if for a journey, he sat in an armchair, but 
seemed a corpse, just as on Fabio’s first visit. 
His torpid head fell back on the chair, and his 
outstretched hands hung lifeless, yellow, and 
rigid on his knees. His breast did not heave. 
Near his chair on the floor, which was strewn 
with dried herbs, stood some flat bowls of dark 


The Song of Triumphant Love 


liquid, which exhaled a powerful, almost suffo¬ 
cating perfume, like the odour of musk. Around 
each bowl was coiled a small snake of brazen 
hue, with golden eyes that flashed from time to 
time; while directly facing Muzzio, two paces 
from him, rose the long figure of the Malay, 
wrapped in a mantle of many-coloured brocade, 
girt round the waist with a tiger’s tail, with a 
high hat in the shape of a pointed tiara on his 
head. But he was not motionless; at one mo¬ 
ment he bowed down reverently, and seemed 
tQ be praying; at the next, he drew himself up 
to his full height, even rose on tiptoe; then, 
with a rhythmic action, threw out wide his arms, 
moved them persistently in the direction of 
Muzzio, and seemed to threaten or command 
him, frowning and stamping with his foot. All 
these actions seemed to cost him great effort, 
even to cause him pain: he breathed heavily; 
the sweat poured down his face. All at once 
he sank down to the ground, and, drawing in a 
full breath, with knitted brows and immense 
effort, drew his clenched hands toward him, as 
if he were holding reins in them—when, to the 
indescribable horror of Fabio, Muzzio’s head 
slowly left the back of the chair, and moved 
forward, following the Malay’s hands. The 
Malay let them fall, and Muzzio’s head fell back 
again. The Malay repeated his movements, 
and obediently the head repeated them after 
him. The dark liquid in the bowls began boil¬ 
ing; the bowls themselves began to resound 

151 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


with a faint, bell-like note, and the brazen 
snakes coiled freely about each of them. Then 
the Malay took a step forward, and, raising his 
eyebrows and opening his eyes immensely wide, 
he bowed his head to Muzzio—and the eyelids 
of the dead man quivered, parted uncertainly, 
and under them could be seen the eyeballs, dull 
as lead. The Malay’s face was radiant with 
triumphant pride and delight, a delight almost 
malignant: he opened his mouth wide, and 
from the depths of his chest there broke out 
with effort a prolonged howl; Muzzio’s lips 
parted, too, and a faint moan quivered on them 
in response to that inhuman sound. 

But at this point Fabio could endure it no 
longer: he conceived he was present at some 
devilish incantation! He, too, uttered a shriek, 
and rushed out, running home, as quick as pos¬ 
sible, without looking round, repeating prayers 
and crossing himself as he ran. 

Three hours later, Antonio came to him with 
the announcement that everything was ready, 
the things were packed, and Signor Muzzio was 
preparing to start. Without a word in answer 
to his servant, Fabio went out onto the terrace 
wherefrom the pavilion could be seen. The door 
of the pavilion opened, and, supported by the 
Malay, who wore once more his ordinary attire, 
appeared Muzzio! His face was deathlike, and 
his hands hung like a dead man’s, but he walked 
—yes, positively walked; and, seated on the 
charger, he sat upright, and felt for and found 


152 


The Song of Triumphant Love 


the reins. The Malay put his feet in the stir¬ 
rups, leaped up behind him on the saddle, put 
his arm round him, and the whole party started. 
The horses walked at a slow pace, and, when 
they turned about before the house, Fabio 
fancied that there gleamed in Muzzio’s dark 
face two spots of white. Could it be he had 
turned his eyes upon him? Only, the Malay 
bowed to him as ironically as ever. 

Did Valeria see all this? The blinds of her 
windows were drawn—but it may be she was 
standing behind them. 

At dinner-time she came into the dining¬ 
room, and was very quiet and affectionate; she 
still complained, however, of weariness. But 
there was no agitation about her now, none of 
her former constant bewilderment and secret 
dread; and when, the day after Muzzio’s de¬ 
parture, Fabio set to work again upon her por¬ 
trait, he found in her features the pure expres¬ 
sion the momentary eclipse of which had so 
troubled him—and his brush moved lightly and 
faithfully over the canvas. 

The husband and wife took up their old life 
again. Muzzio vanished from them as if he 
had never existed. Fabio and Valeria were 
agreed, as it seemed, not to utter a syllable re¬ 
ferring to him, not to learn anything of his later 
days; his fate remained, however, a mystery 
for all. Muzzio did actually disappear as if 
he had sunk into the earth. Fabio one day 
thought it his duty to tell Valeria exactly what 

153 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


had taken place on that fatal night; but she 
probably divined his intention, and she held 
her breath, half-shutting her eyes, as if she were 
expecting a blow. And Fabio understood her; 
he did not inflict that blow upon her. 

One fine autumn day, while Fabio was putting 
the last touches to his picture of his Cecilia, 
Valeria sat at the organ, her fingers straying at 
random over the keys. Suddenly, without her 
knowing it, from under her hands came the first 
notes of that song of triumphant love which 
Muzzio had once played; and at the same in¬ 
stant, for the first time since her marriage, she 
felt within her the throb of a new palpitating 
life. Valeria started—stopped- 

What did it mean? Could it be-? 

But here the manuscript ended. 


154 



GOOD STORIES 


PART II 


n 


ALI BABA AND THE FORTY 
ROBBERS 

From the “Arabian Nights’ Entertain¬ 
ments” 

In a certain town of Persia there lived 
two brothers, one of whom was called Cassim, 
and the other Ali Baba. Their father at 
his death left them but a very moderate 
fortune, which they divided equally between 
them. It might, therefore, be naturally conjec¬ 
tured that their riches would be the same; 
chance, however, ordered it otherwise. 

Cassim married a woman who, very soon after 
her nuptials, became heiress to a well-furnished 
shop, a warehouse filled with merchandise, and 
considerable property in land; he thus found 
himself on a sudden quite at his ease, and became 
one of the richest merchants in the whole town. 

Ali Baba, on the other hand, who had taken 
a wife in no better circumstances than he him¬ 
self was, lived in a very poor house, and had 
no other means of gaining his livelihood, and 
supporting his wife and children, than by going 
out to cut wood in a neighbouring forest, and 
carrying it about the town to sell, on three asses 
which formed the whole of his capital. 

Ali Baba went one day to the forest, and had 


7 . 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


very nearly finished cutting as much wood as 
his asses could carry, when he perceived a thick 
cloud of dust rising very high in the air, which 
appeared to come from the right of the spot 
where he was, and to be advancing toward him. 
He looked at it attentively, and perceived a 
numerous company of men on horseback, who 
were approaching at a quick pace. 

Although that part of the country was never 
spoken of as being infested by robbers, Ali Baba 
nevertheless conjectured that these horsemen 
were of that denomination. Without, therefore, 
at all considering what might become of his 
asses, his first and only care was to save himself. 
He instantly climbed up into a large tree, the 
branches of which, at a very little height from 
the ground, spread out so close and thick that 
they were separated only in one small space. 
He placed himself in the midst of these with the 
greatest assurance of security, as he could see 
everything that passed without being observed. 
The tree itself also grew at the foot of a sort of 
isolated rock, considerably higher than the tree, 
and so steep that it could not be easily ascended. 

The men, who appeared stout, powerful, and 
well-mounted, came up to this very rock, and 
there alighted. Ali Baba counted forty of them, 
and was very sure, both from their appearance 
and mode of equipment, that they were robbers. 
Nor was he wrong in his conjecture; for they 
were, in fact, a band of robbers, who, without 
committing any depredations in the neighbour- 


2 


Ali Baba 


hood, carried on their system of plunder at a 
considerable distance, and only had their place 
of rendezvous in that spot; and what he almost 
immediately saw them do confirmed him in this 
opinion. Each horseman took the bridle of his 
horse, and hung over its head a bag filled with 
barley, which he had brought with him; and, 
having all fastened their horses to something, 
they took their travelling-bags, which appeared 
so heavy that Ali Baba thought they were 
filled with gold and silver. 

The robber who was nearest him, and whom 
Ali Baba took for their captain, came with his 
bag on his shoulder close to the rock, at the very 
spot where the tree was in which he had concealed 
himself. After the robber had made his way 
among some bushes and shrubs that grew there, 
he very distinctly pronounced these words, 
“Open, Sesame ”—which Ali Baba as distinctly 
heard. The captain of the band had no sooner 
spoken them than a door immediately opened, 
and, after having made all his men pass before 
him, and go through the door, he entered also, 
and the door closed. 

The robbers continued within the rock for a 
considerable time; and Ali Baba was compelled 
to remain on the tree and wait with patience for 
their departure, as he was afraid either some or 
all of them might come out, if he left his present 
situation and endeavoured to save himself by 
flight. He was, nevertheless, strongly tempted 
to creep down, seize two of their horses, mount 


3 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


one and lead the other by the bridle, and thus, 
driving his three asses before him, gain the town. 
The uncertainty, however of his success, made 
him follow the safer mode. 

At length the door opened, and the forty 
robbers came out: the captain, contrary to what 
he did when they entered, first made his ap¬ 
pearance. After he had seen all his troop pass 
out before him, Ali Baba heard him pronounce 
these words, “Shut, Sesame .” Each man then 
returned to his horse, put on its bridle, fastened 
his bag, and then mounted. When the captain 
saw that they were all ready to proceed, he put 
himself at their head, and they departed the 
same way as they came. 

Ali Baba did not immediately come down 
from the tree, because he thought that they 
might have forgotten something, and be obliged 
to come back, and that he should thus get into 
some scrape. He followed them with his eyes 
as far as he could, nor did he, in order to be 
more secure come down till a considerable time 
after he had lost sight of them. As he recollected 
the words the captain of the robbers made use 
of to open and shut the door, he had the curiosity 
to try whether the same effect would be produced 
by his pronouncing them. He made his way, 
therefore, through the bushes till he came to the 
door, which they concealed. He went up to it, 
and called out, “Open, Sesame” when the 
door instantly flew wide open! 

Ali Baba expected to find only a dark and 


4 


Ali Baba 


obscure cave, and was much astonished at seeing 
a large, spacious, well-lighted, and vaulted 
room, dug out of the rock, and higher than a 
man could reach. It received its light from the 
top of the rock, cut out in a similar manner. 
He observed in it a large quantity of provisions, 
numerous bales of rich merchandise piled up, 
silk stuffs and brocades, rich and valuable 
carpets, and, besides all this, great quantities of 
money, both silver and gold, some in heaps, and 
some in large leather bags, placed one on another. 
At the sight of all these things, it seemed to him 
that this cave had been used not only for years, 
but for centuries, as a retreat for robbers who 
had regularly succeeded each other. 

Ali Baba did not hesitate long as to the plan 
he should pursue. He went into the cave, and 
as soon as he was there, the door shut; but as he 
knew the secret by which to open it, this gave 
him no sort of uneasiness. He paid no attention 
to the silver, but made directly for the gold coin, 
and particularly that which was in the bags. 
He took up at several times as much as he could 
carry, and when he had got together what he 
thought sufficient for loading his three asses, he 
went and collected them together, as they had 
each strayed to some distance. He then brought 
them as close as he could to the rock, and loaded 
them, and, in order to conceal the sacks, he so 
covered the whole over with wood that no one 
could perceive anything else. When he had 
finished all this, he went up to the door, and had 

$ 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


no sooner pronounced the words," Shut, Sesame,” 
than it closed; for, although it shut of itself every 
time he went in, it remained open on coming out 
only by command. 

This being done, Ali Baba took the road to 
the town; and, when he got to his own house, he 
drove his asses into a small court, and shut the 
gate with great care. He threw down the small 
quantity of wood that covered the bags, and 
carried the latter into his house, where he laid 
them down in a regular manner before his wife, 
who was sitting upon a sofa. 

His wife felt the sacks to know their contents; 
and, when she found them to be full of money, 
she suspected her husband of having stolen 
them, so that, when he brought them all before 
her, she could not help saying, "Ali Baba, is it 

possible that you should-” He immediately 

interrupted her: "Peace, my dear wife,” ex¬ 
claimed he, "do not alarm yourself; I am not a 
thief, unless that title be attached to those who 
take from thieves. You will change your bad 
opinion of me when I shall have told you my 
good fortune.” He emptied the sacks, the 
contents of which formed a heap of gold that 
quite dazzled his wife’s eyes, and, when he 
had done so, he related his whole adventure from 
beginning to end; and, as he concluded, he 
above all things conjured her to keep it secret. 

His wife, recovering from her alarm, began to 
rejoice in the fortunate circumstance which had 
befallen them, and was going to count over the 
6 



Ali Baba 


money that lay before her, piece by piece. 
“What are you going to do?” said he: “you are 
very foolish, wife; you would never have done 
counting. I will immediately dig a pit to bury 
it in; we have no time to lose.” “It is proper, 
though,” replied the wife, “that we should know 
nearly what quantity there may be. I will 
go for a small measure in the neighbourhood, and, 
whilst you are digging the pit, I will ascertain 
how much there is.” “What you want to do, 
wife,” replied Ali Baba, “is of no use, and, if 
you will take my advice, you will give up the 
intention. However, do as you please; only 
remember not to betray the secret.” 

In order to satisfy herself, the wife of Ali Baba 
set off, and went to her brother-in-law, Cassim, 
who lived a short distance from her house. 
Cassim was from home, so she begged his wife to 
lend her a measure for a few minutes. She 
inquired whether she wanted a large or a small 
one, to which Ali Baba’s wife replied that a small 
one would suit her. “That I will, with pleasure,” 
said the sister-in-law; “wait a moment, and I 
will bring it you.” She went to seek a measure; 
but, knowing the poverty of Ali Baba, she was 
curious to know what sort of grain his wife 
wanted to measure; she therefore put some 
tallow under the measure, which she did without 
its being perceptible. She returned with it, 
and, giving it to the wife of Ali Baba, apologised 
for having made her wait so long, with the excuse 
that she had some difficulty to find it. 

7 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


The wife of AH Baba returned home, and, 
placing the measure on the heap of gold, filled 
and then emptied it at a Httle distance on the 
sofa, till she had measured the whole; her 
husband by this time having dug the pit for its 
reception, she informed him how many measures 
there were, with which they were both very well 
contented. While Ali Baba was burying the 
gold, his wife, to prove her diligence and punctu¬ 
ality, went back with the measure to her sister- 
in-law, but without observing that a piece of 
gold had stuck to the bottom of it. “Here, 
sister,” said she, on returning it, “you see I have 
not kept your measure long; I am much obliged 
to you for lending it to me.” 

The wife of Ali Baba had scarcely turned her 
back when Cassim’s wife looked at the bottom 
of the measure, and was inexpressibly as¬ 
tonished to see a piece of gold sticking to 
it. Envy instantly took possession of her 
breast. “What!” said she to herself, “Ali Baba 
measures his gold! Where can that miserable 
wretch have obtained it?” Her husband, 
Cassim, as was before mentioned, was from 
home: he had gone as usual to his shop, from 
whence he would not return till evening. The 
time of his absence appeared an age to her, in 
the state of impatience she was then in to 
acquaint him with a circumstance which she 
concluded would surprise him as much as it had 
done her. 

On his return home, his wife said to him, 
8 


Ali Baba 


“Cassim, you think you are rich, but you are 
deceived: Ali Baba must have infinitely more 
wealth than you are possessed of; he does not 
count his money as you do—he measures it.” 
Cassim demanded an explanation of this enigma, 
and she unravelled it by acquainting him with 
the expedient she had used to make the dis¬ 
covery, and showing him the piece of money 
she had found adhering to the bottom of the 
measure—a coin so ancient that the name of the 
prince which was engraven on it was unknown 
to her. 

Far from feeling satisfaction at the good 
fortune which his brother had met with to 
relieve him from poverty, Cassim conceived 
implacable jealousy on the occasion. He passed 
almost the whole night without closing his eyes. 
The next morning before sunrise he went to 
him. He did not treat him as a brother: that 
endearing appellation had been forgotten since 
his marriage with the rich widow. “Ali Baba,” 
said he, addressing him, “you are very reserved 
as to your affairs; you pretend to be poor and 
miserable, and a beggar, and yet you measure 
your money.” “Brother,” replied Ali Baba, 
“I do not understand your meaning; pray 
explain yourself.” “Do not pretend ignorance,” 
resumed Cassim; and showing him the piece of 
gold his wife had given him, “how many pieces,” 
added he, “have you like this, which my wife 
found sticking to the bottom of the measure 
yesterday?” 


9 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


From his speech Ali Baba conjectured that 
Cassim, and his wife also, in consequence of his 
own wife’s obstinacy, were already acquainted 
with what he was so interested to conceal from 
them; but the discovery was made, and nothing 
could now be done to remedy the evil. Without 
showing the least sign of surprise or vexation, he 
frankly owned to his brother the whole affair, and 
told him by what chance he had found the retreat 
of the thieves, and where it was situated; and 
he offered, if he would agree to keep it secret, to 
share the treasure with him. 

“This I certainly expect,” replied Cassim in a 
haughty tone; and added, “but I desire to know 
also the precise spot where this treasure lies con¬ 
cealed, the marks and signs which may lead to 
it, and enable me to visit the place myself, 
should I feel myself inclined, otherwise I will go 
and inform the officer of police of it. If you 
refuse to comply, you will not only be deprived 
of all hope of obtaining any more, but you will 
even lose that you have already taken; and I, 
instead, shall receive my portion for having 
informed against you.” 

Ali Baba, led rather by his natural goodness of 
heart than intimidated by the insolent menaces 
of a cruel brother, gave him all the information 
he desired, and even told him the words he must 
pronounce, both on entering the cave and on 
quitting it. Cassim made no further inquiries 
of Ali Baba; he left him with the determination 
of preventing him in any further views he might 
io 


Ali Baba 


have on the treasure. Full of the hope of 
possessing himself of the whole, he set off the 
next morning before break of day, with ten 
mules bearing large hampers, which he proposed 
to fill, still indulging in the prospect of taking 
a much larger number in a second expedition, 
according to the"sums he might find in the cave. 
He took the road which Ali Baba had pointed 
out, and arrived at the rock and the tree which, 
from description, he knew to be the same that 
had concealed his brother. He looked for the 
door, and soon discovered it. Having pro¬ 
nounced "Open, Sesame ,” the door obeyed; he 
entered, and it immediately afterward closed. 
In examining the cave, he was in the utmost 
astonishment to find much more riches than the 
description of Ali Baba had led him to expect, 
and his admiration increased as he examined 
each thing separately. Avaricious as he was, 
he could have passed the whole day in feasting 
his eyes with the sight of so much gold; but he 
reflected that he was come to load and take 
away his ten mules with as much as he could 
collect; he therefore took up a number of sacks, 
a^d, coming to the door, his mind filled with a 
multitude of ideas far removed from that 
which was of the most consequence, he found 
he had forgotten the important words, and 
that instead of pronouncing "Sesame," he said, 
"Open, Barley He was struck with astonish¬ 
ment on perceiving that the door, instead of 
flying open, remained closed; he named various 


ii 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


other kinds of grain; all but the right were 
called upon, and the door did not move. 

Cassim was not prepared for an adventure of 
this nature: in the imminent danger in which he 
beheld himself, fear took entire possession of his 
mind; the more he endeavoured to recollect the 
word “sesame,” the more was his memory con¬ 
fused, and he remained as totally ignorant of it 
as if he had never heard the word mentioned. 
He threw the sacks he had collected on the 
ground, and paced with hasty steps backwards 
and forwards in the cave; the riches which 
surrounded him had no longer charms for his 
imagination. 

But let us leave Cassim to deplore his 
own fate, for he does not deserve our com¬ 
passion. 

The robbers returned to their cave towards 
noon; and, when they were within a short 
distance of it, and saw the mules belonging to 
Cassim laden with hampers, standing about the 
rock, they were a good deal surprised at such a 
novelty. They immediately advanced full speed, 
and drove away the ten mules, which Cassim had 
neglected to fasten, and which, therefore, soon 
took flight and dispersed in the forest, so as to 
get out of sight. The robbers did not give them¬ 
selves the trouble to run after the mules, for 
their chief object was to discover him to whom 
they belonged. While some were employed in 
examining the exterior recesses of the rock, the 
captain with the others alighted, and, with their 


12 


Ali Baba 


sabres in their hands, went towards the door, 
pronounced the words, and it opened. 

Cassim, who, from the inside of the cave, heard 
the noise of horses trampling on the ground, did 
not doubt that the robbers were arrived, and that 
his death was inevitable. Resolved, however, 
to attempt one effort to escape and reach some 
place of safety, he placed himself near the door, 
ready to run out as soon as it should open. 
The word “Sesame,” which he had in vain 
endeavoured to recall to his remembrance, was 
scarcely pronounced when it opened, and he 
rushed out with such violence that he threw the 
captain on the ground. He did not, however, 
avoid the other thieves, who, having their 
sabres drawn, slew him on the spot. 

The first care which occupied the robbers after 
this execution was to enter the cave: they found 
near the door the sacks which Cassim, after 
having filled them with gold, had removed there 
for the convenience of lading his mules; and they 
put them in their places again, without observing 
the deficiency of those which Ali Baba had 
previously carried away. Deliberating and 
consulting on this event, they could easily 
account for Cassim’s not having been able to 
effect his escape, but they could not in any way 
imagine how he had been able to enter the cave. 
They conceived that he might have descended 
from the top of the cave; but the opening which 
admitted the light was so high, and the summit 
of the rock so inaccessible on the outside— 


13 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


besides which there were no traces of his having 
adopted this mode—that they all agreed it was 
beyond their conjecture. They could not suppose 
that he had entered by the door, unless he had 
been acquainted with the secret which caused 
it to open; but they felt quite secure that they 
alone were possessed of this secret, as they were 
ignorant of having been overheard by Ali 
Baba. 

But as the manner in which this circumstance 
had happened was impenetrable, and their 
united riches were no longer in safety, they agreed 
to divide the carcass of Cassim into four quarters, 
and place them in the cave near the door— 
two quarters on one side, and two on the other— 
to frighten away any one who might have the 
boldness to hazard a similar enterprise; resolving 
themselves not to return to the cave for some 
time, until the stench from the corpse should be 
subsided. This determination formed, they put it 
in execution; and, when they had nothing fur¬ 
ther to detain them, they left their place of re¬ 
treat well secured, mounted their horses, and 
set off to scour the country in such roads as 
were most frequented by caravans, which af¬ 
forded them favourable opportunities of exer¬ 
cising their wonted dexterity in plundering. 

The wife of Cassim, in the meantime, was in 
the greatest uneasiness when she observed 
night approach, and yet her husband did not 
return. She went in the utmost alarm to Ali 
Baba, and said to him: “Brother, I believe 


14 


Ali Baba 


you are not ignorant that Cassim is gone to the 
forest, and for what purpose. He is not yet 
come back, and night is already advancing. I 
fear that some accident may have befallen him.” 

Ali Baba had suspected his brother’s intention 
after the conversation he had held with him, and 
for this reason he had desisted from visiting the 
forest on that day, that he might not offend him. 
However, without uttering any reproaches that 
could have given the slightest offence either to 
her or her husband, had he been still living, he 
replied that she need not yet feel any uneasiness 
concerning him, for that Cassim most probably 
thought it prudent not to return to the city 
until the night was considerably advanced. 
The wife of Cassim felt satisfied with this reason, 
and was the more easily persuaded of its truth, 
as she considered how important it was that her 
husband should use the greatest secrecy for the 
accomplishment of his purpose. She returned 
to her house and waited patiently till midnight; 
but, after that hour, her fears redoubled, and 
were attended with still greater grief, as she 
could not proclaim it, nor even relieve it by 
cries, the cause of which she saw the necessity of 
concealing from the neighbourhood. She then 
began to repent of the silly curiosity which, 
instigated by the most despicable envy, had 
induced her to endeavour to penetrate into the 
private affairs of her brother and sister-in-law. 
The night was spent in weeping, and at break of 
day she ran to them, and announced the cause 
15 


Masterpieces of Fiction 

of her early visit less by her words than her 
tears. 

Ali Baba did not wait for his sister’s entreaties 
to go and seek for Cassim. He immediately set 
off with his three asses, and went to the forest. 
As he drew near the rock, he was astonished on 
observing that blood had been shed near the 
door; and, not having in his way met either his 
brother or the ten mules, he conceived no 
favourable omen. He reached the door, and, 
on pronouncing the words, it opened. He 
was struck with horror when he distinguished 
the body of his brother cut into four quarters; 
yet he did not hesitate on the course he was 
to pursue in rendering the last act of duty to his 
brother’s remains, notwithstanding the small 
share of fraternal affection he had received from 
him during'his life. He found materials in the 
cave to wrap up the body; and, making two 
packets of the four quarters, he placed them on 
one of his asses, covering them with sticks to 
conceal them. The other two asses he quickly 
loaded with sacks of gold, putting wood over 
them, as on the preceding occasion; and, having 
finished all he had to do, and commanded 
the door to close, he took the road to the city, 
using the precaution to wait at the entrance of 
the forest until night was closed, that he might 
return without being observed. When he got 
home, he left the two asses that were laden with 
gold, desiring his wife to take care to unload 
them; and having in a few words acquainted her 
16 


Ali Baba 


with what had happened to Cassim, he led the 
other ass to his sister-in-law. 

Ali Baba knocked at the door, which was 
opened to him by Morgiana. This Morgiana was 
a female slave, crafty, cunning, and fruitful in 
inventions to forward the success of the most 
difficult enterprise, in which character Ali Baba 
knew her well. When he had entered the court 
he took off the wood and the two packages from 
the ass, and taking the slave aside, “Morgiana,” 
said he, “the first thing I have to request of you 
is inviolable secrecy; you will soon see how 
necessary it is, not only to me, but to your 
mistress. These two packets contain the body 
of your master, and we must endeavour to bury 
him as if he had died a natural death. Let me 
speak to your mistress, and be attentive to what 
I shall say to her.” 

Morgiana went to acquaint her mistress, and 
Ali Baba followed her. “Well, brother,” in¬ 
quired his sister-in-law in an impatient tone, 
“what news do you bring of my husband? 
Alas! I perceive no traces of consolation in 
your countenance.” “Sister,” replied Ali Baba, 
“I cannot answer you, unless you will first 
promise to listen to me from the beginning to 
the end of my story without interruption. It is 
of no less importance to you than to me, under 
the present circumstances, to preserve the 
greatest secrecy; it is absolutely necessary for 
your repose and security.” “Ah!” cried the 
sister, without elevating her voice, “this pre- 
17 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


amble convinces me that my husband is no 
more, but, at the same time, I feel the necessity 
of the secrecy you require. I must do violence 
to my feelings. Speak; I attend." 

Ali Baba then related to her all that had 
happened during his journey until his arrival 
with the body of Cassim. “Sister,” added he, 
“here is a new cause of affliction for you, the 
more distressing as it was unexpected. Although 
the evil is without remedy, if, nevertheless, 
anything can afford you consolation, I offer to 
join the small property God has granted me to 
yours by marrying you. I can assure you my 
wife will not be jealous, and you will live com¬ 
fortably together. If this proposal meets your 
approbation, we must contrive to bury my 
brother as if he had died a natural death; 
and this is a trust which I think you may 
safely repose in Morgiana, and I will, on 
my part, contribute all in my power to assist 
her." 

The widow of Cassim reflected that she could 
not do better than consent to this offer, for he 
possessed greater riches than she was left with, 
and besides, by the discovery of the treasure, 
might increase them considerably. She did not, 
therefore, refuse his proposal, but, on the 
contrary, regarded it as a reasonable motive for 
consolation. She wiped away her tears, which 
had begun to flow abundantly, and suppressed 
those mournful cries which women usually utter 
on the death of their husbands, and thereby 
18 


Ali Baba 


sufficiently testified to Ali Baba that she ac¬ 
cepted his offer. 

Ali Baba left the widow of Cassim in this 
disposition of mind, and, having strongly recom¬ 
mended Morgiana to acquit herself properly 
in the part she was to perform, he returned home 
with his ass. 

Morgiana did not belie her character for cun¬ 
ning. She went out with Ali Baba, and re¬ 
paired to an apothecary who lived in the neigh¬ 
bourhood. She knocked at the shop door, and, 
when it was opened, asked for a particular kind 
of lozenge of great efficacy in dangerous disorders. 
The apothecary gave her as much as the money 
she offered would pay for, asking who was ill in 
her master’s family. “Ah!” exclaimed she, 
with a deep sigh, “it is my worthy master, 
Cassim himself. No one can understand his 
complaint; he can neither speak nor eat.” 

On the following day, she again went to the 
same apothecary, and, with tears in her eyes, 
inquired for an essence which it was customary 
to administer only when the patient was reduced 
to the last extremity, and when few hopes of life 
were entertained. “Alas!” cried she, as she 
received it from the hands of the apothecary, 
and apparently in the deepest affliction, “I fear 
this remedy will not be of more use than the 
lozenges. I shall lose my good master!” 

On the other hand, as Ali Baba and his wife 
were seen going backwards and forwards to the 


19 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


house of Cassim in the course of the day, no one 
was surprised toward evening on hearing the 
piercing cries of his widow and Morgiana, which 
announced the death of Cassini. At a very 
early hour the next morning, when day began 
to appear, Morgiana, knowing that a good old 
cobbler lived near, who was one of the first to 
open his shop, went out in search of him. Com¬ 
ing up to him, she wished him a good day, and 
put a piece of gold into his hand. 

Baba Mustapha, known to all the world by 
this name, was naturally of a gay turn, and had 
always something laughable to say. Examining 
the piece of money, as it was yet scarcely daylight, 
and seeing it was gold, “A good handsel,” said 
he; “what’s to be done? I am ready to do what 
I am bid.” “Baba Mustapha,” said Morgiana 
to him, “take all you want for sewing, and come 
directly with me; but on this condition: that 
you let me put a bandage over your eyes when 
we have got to a certain place.” At these 
words, Baba Mustapha began to make difficulties. 
“Oh, oh!” said he, “you want me to do some¬ 
thing against my conscience or my honour.” 
Then putting another piece of gold into his 
hand, “God forbid,” said Morgiana, “that I 
should require you to do anything that would 
stain your honour; only come with me, and fear 
nothing.” 

Baba Mustapha suffered himself to be led by 
the slave, who, when she had reached the place 
she had mentioned, bound a handkerchief over 


20 


Ali Baba 


his eyes, and conducted him to the house of her 
deceased master; nor did she remove the bandage 
until he was in the chamber where the body was 
deposited, each quarter in its proper place. 
Then taking off the handkerchief, “Baba 
Mustapha,” said she, “I have brought you 
here that you might sew these pieces together. 
Lose no time, and, when you have done, I will 
give you another piece of gold.” 

When Baba Mustapha had finished his job, 
Morgiana bound his eyes again before he left 
the chamber, and, having given him the third 
piece of money according to her promise, and 
earnestly recommended him to secrecy, she con¬ 
ducted him to the place where she had first put 
on the handkerchief, and having again taken 
it off, she left him to return to his house, following 
him, however, with her eyes until he was out of 
sight, lest he should have the curiosity to return 
and watch her movements. 

Morgiana had heated some water to wash the 
body of Cassim, and Ali Baba, who entered just 
as she returned, washed it, perfumed it with 
incense, and wrapped it in the burying-clothes 
with the accustomed ceremonies. The under¬ 
taker also brought the coffin which Ali Baba 
had taken care to order. In order that he 
might not observe anything particular, Morgiana 
took the coffin in at the door, and, having paid 
and sent him away, she assisted Ali Baba to put 
the body into it. When he had nailed down 
the boards which covered it, she went to the 


21 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


mosque to give notice that everything was ready 
for the funeral. The people belonging to the 
mosque, whose office it is to wash the bodies of 
the dead, offered to come and perform their 
usual function, but she told them that all was 
done and ready. 

Morgiana was scarcely returned when the 
Imam and the other ministers of the mosque 
arrived. Four of the neighbours took the coffin 
on their shoulders, and carried it to the cemetery, 
following the Imam, who repeated prayers as he 
went along. Morgiana, as slave to the deceased, 
went next, with her head uncovered, bathed in 
tears, and uttering the most piteous cries from 
time to time, beating her breast and tearing her 
hair; Ali Baba closed the procession, accompanied 
by some of the neighbours, who occasionally took 
the place of the others to relieve them in carrying 
the coffin until they reached the cemetery. 

As for the widow of Cassim, she remained 
at home to lament and weep with the women of 
the neighbourhood, who, according to the usual 
custom, repaired to her house during the cere¬ 
mony of the burial, and joining their cries to hers, 
filled the air with sounds of woe. In this manner, 
the fatal end of Cassim was so well concealed 
that no one in the city had the least suspicion of 
the affair. 

Three or four days after the interment of 
Cassim, Ali Baba removed the few goods he was 
possessed of, together with the money he had 
taken from the robbers’ store, which he conveyed 


22 


Ali Baba 


only by night, into the house of the widow of 
Cassini, in order to establish himself there, and 
thus announce his recent marriage with his 
sister-in-law; and, as such marriages are by no 
means extraordinary in our religion, no one 
showed any marks of surprise on the occasion. 

Ali Baba had a son who had lately ended an 
apprenticeship with a merchant of considerable 
repute, who had always bestowed the highest 
commendations on his conduct; to this son he 
gave the shop of Cassim, with a further promise 
that, if he continued to behave with prudence, 
he would ere long marry him advantageously, 
considering his situation in life. 

But let us now leave Ali Baba to enjoy the 
first dawn of his good fortune, and return to 
the forty thieves. They came back to their 
retreat in the forest, when the time they had 
agreed to be absent had expired; but their 
astonishment was indescribable when they 
found the body of Cassim gone, and it was 
greatly increased on perceiving a visible diminu¬ 
tion of their treasure. “We are discovered,” 
said the captain, “and lost beyond recovery if 
we are not very careful, and do not take im¬ 
mediate measures to remedy the evil; we shall, 
by insensible degrees, lose all these riches, which 
our ancestors, as well as ourselves, have amassed 
with so much danger and fatigue. All that we can 
at present judge of the loss we have sustained is 
that the thief whom we surprised at the fortunate 
moment when he was going to make his escape, 


23 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


knew the secret of opening the door. But he 
was not the only one who possesses it; another 
must have the same knowledge. His body being 
removed, and our treasure diminished, are 
incontestible proofs of the fact. And as we 
have no reason to suppose that more than two 
people are acquainted with the secret, having 
destroyed one, we must not suffer the other to 
escape. What say you, my brave men? Are 
you not of my opinion ? ” 

This proposal of the captain was thought so 
reasonable and proper by the whole troop that 
they all approved it, and agreed that it would be 
advisable to relinquish every other enterprise, 
and occupy themselves solely with this, which 
they should not abandon until they had suc¬ 
ceeded in detecting the thief. 

“I expected nothing otherwise, from your 
known courage and bravery,” resumed the 
captain; ‘‘but the first thing to be done is, that 
one of you who is bold, courageous, and possessed 
of some address, should go to the city, without 
arms, and in the dress of a traveller and a 
stranger, and employ all his art to discover 
if the singular death we inflicted on the culprit 
whom we destroyed as he deserved, is the 
common topic of conversation, who he was, and 
where he lived. This it is absolutely necessary 
we should be acquainted with, that we may not 
do anything of which we may have to repent, 
by making ourselves known in a country where 
we have been so long forgotten, and where it is 


24 


Ali Baba 


so much our interest to remain so. But in 
order to inspire him with ardour who shall 
undertake this commission, and to prevent his 
bringing us a false report, which might occasion 
our total ruin, I propose that he should submit 
to the penalty of death in case of failure.” 

Without waiting for the rest to give their 
opinions, one of the robbers said: ‘‘I willingly 
submit, and glory in exposing my life for the 
execution of such a commission. If I should 
fail in the attempt, you will at least remember 
that neither courage nor good-will have been 
deficient in my offer to serve the whole troop.” 

This robber, after having received the com¬ 
mendation of the captain and his companions, 
disguised himself in such a way that no one 
could have suspected him to be what he in 
reality was. He set off at night, and managed 
so well that he entered the city just as day was 
beginning to appear. He went toward the 
square, where he saw only one shop open, which 
was that of Baba Mustapha. 

Baba Mustapha was seated on his stool, with 
his awl in his hand, ready to begin his work. 
The thief went up to him, and wished him a 
good - morning, and, perceiving him to be ad¬ 
vanced in years, “My good man,” said he, “you 
rise betimes to your work: it is not possible that 
you can see clearly at this early hour, so old as 
you are; and even if it were broad day, I doubt 
whether your eyes are good enough to sew with.” 

“Whoever you are,” replied Baba Mustapha, 
25 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


“you do not know much of me. Notwithstand¬ 
ing my age, I have excellent eyes; and so you 
would have said had you known that not long 
ago I sewed up a dead body in a place where 
there was not more light than we have now.” 

The robber felt great satisfaction at having 
on his arrival addressed himself to a man who 
immediately gave him, of his own accord, that 
intelligence which he did not doubt was the 
very same he was in search of. “A dead body! ’’ 
replied he, with a feigned astonishment, to 
induce the other to proceed; “why sew up a 
dead body? I suppose you mean that you 
sewed the shroud in which he was buried. ” “ No, 

no,” said Baba Mustapha, “I know what I say; 
you want me to tell you more about it, but you 
shall not know another syllable.” 

The thief wanted no further proof to be fully 
persuaded that he was in a good train to discover 
what he was in search of. He drew out a piece 
of gold, and, putting it into Baba Mustapha’s 
hand, he said: “I have no desire to become 
acquainted with your secret, although I can 
assure you I should not divulge it, even if you 
had entrusted me with it. The only thing 
which I entreat of you is to have the goodness 
to direct me, or to come with me, and show me 
the house where you sewed up the dead body.” 

“Should I even feel myself inclined to grant 
your request,” replied Baba Mustapha, holding 
the piece of money in hand ready to return it, 
“I assure you that I could not do it, and this 
26 


Ali Baba 


you may take my word for. And I will tell you 
the reason: they took me to a particular place, 
and there they bound my eyes; from thence I 
suffered myself to be led to the house; and when 
I had finished what I had to do I was conducted 
back to the same place in the same manner. 
You see, therefore, how impossible it is that I 
should be of any service to you.” ‘‘But at 
least,” resumed the robber, “you must remem¬ 
ber nearly the way you went after your eyes 
were bound. Pray come with me: I will put a 
bandage over your eyes at that place, and we 
will walk together along the same streets, and 
follow the same turnings, which you will prob¬ 
ably recollect to have gone over before; and, 
as all trouble deserves a reward, here is another 
piece of gold. Come, grant me this favour.” 
Saying these words, he put another piece of 
money into his hand. 

The two pieces of gold tempted Baba Mustapha; 
he looked at them in his hand some time without 
saying a word, consulting within himself what 
he should do. At length he drew his purse 
from his bosom, and putting them in it, “I 
cannot positively assure you,” said he, “that I 
remember exactly the way they took me; but, 
since you will have it so, come along, I will do 
my best to remember it.” 

To the great satisfaction of the robber, Baba 
Mustapha got up to go with him, and, without 
shutting up his shop, where there was nothing 
of consequence to lose, he conducted the robber 
27 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


to the spot where Morgiana had put the bandage 
over his eyes. When they were arrived, “This 
is the place,” said he, “where my eyes were 
bound, and I was turned the way you see me.” 
The robber, who had his handkerchief ready, 
tied it over his eyes, and walked by his side, 
partly leading him and partly being conducted 
by him, till he stopped. 

Baba Mustapha then said, “I think I did not 
go farther than this; ” and he was, in fact, exactly 
before the house which formerly belonged to 
Cassim, and where Ali Baba now resided. 
Before he took the bandage from his eyes, the 
robber quickly made a mark on the door with 
some chalk he had for the purpose, and when he 
had taken it off, he asked him if he knew to 
whom the house belonged. Baba Mustapha 
replied that he did not live in that division of the 
town, and therefore could not give him any 
information respecting it. As the robber found 
he could gain no further intelligence from Baba 
Mustapha, he thanked him for the trouble he 
had taken, and, when he left him to return to his 
shop, he took the road to the forest, where he 
was persuaded he should be well received. 

Soon after the robber and Baba Mustapha 
had separated, Morgiana had occasion to go out 
on some errand, and, when she returned, she 
observed the mark which the robber had made 
on the door of Ali Baba’s house. She stopped 
to consider it. “What can this mark signify?” 
thought she; “has any one a spite against my 
28 


master, or has it been done only for diversion? 
Be the motive what it may, it will be well to 
use precaution against the worst that may hap¬ 
pen.” She therefore took some chalk, and, as 
several of the doors both above and below her 
master’s were alike, she marked them in the 
same manner, and then went in without saying 
anything of what she had done either to her 
master or mistress. 

The thief in the meantime continued on his 
road till he arrived at the forest, where he 
rejoined his companions at an early hour. He 
related the success of his journey, dwelling much 
on the good fortune that had befriended him in 
discovering so soon the very man who could give 
him the best information on the subject he went 
about, and which no one but he could have 
acquainted him with. They all listened to him 
with great satisfaction, and the captain, after 
praising his diligence, thus addressed the party: 
“Comrades,” said he, “we have no time to 
lose; let us secretly arm ourselves and depart 
and, when we have entered the city—which, not 
to create suspicion, we had best do separately— 
let us all assemble in the great square, some on 
one side of it, some on the other, and I will go 
and find out the house with our companion who 
has brought us this good news; by which I shall 
be able to judge what method will be most 
advantageous.” 

The robbers all applauded their captain’s 
proposal, and they were very shortly equipped 
29 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


for their departure. They went in small parties 
of two or three together, and, walking at a 
proper distance from each other, they entered 
the city without occasioning any suspicion. 
The captain and he who had been there in the 
morning were the last to enter it, and the latter 
conducted the captain to the street in which 
he had marked the house of Ali Baba. When 
they reached the first house that had been 
marked by Morgiana, he pointed it out, saying 
that was the one. But as they continued 
walking on without stopping, that they might 
not raise suspicion, the captain perceived that 
the next door was marked in the same manner 
and on the same part, which he observed to 
his guide, and inquired whether this was the 
house or that they had passed. His guide was 
quite confused, and knew not what to answer; 
and his embarrassment increased when, on 
proceeding with the captain, he found that four 
or five doors successively had the same mark. 
He assured the captain, with an oath, that he 
had marked but one. “I cannot conceive,” 
added he, ‘‘who can have imitated my mark 
with so much exactness; but I confess that I can¬ 
not now distinguish that which I had marked.” 

The captain, who found that his design did not 
succeed, returned to the great square, where he 
told the first of his people whom he met to ac¬ 
quaint the rest that they had lost their labour, 
and made a fruitless expedition, and that 
now nothing remained but to return to their 


30 


All Baba 


place of retreat. He set the example, and 
they all followed in the same order as they 
came. 

When the troop had reassembled in the forest, 
the captain explained to them the reason of his 
having ordered them to return. The conductor 
was unanimously declared deserving of death, 
and he joined in his own condemnation, by 
owning that he should have been more cautious 
in taking his measures; he presented his head 
with firmness to him who advanced to sever it 
from his body. 

As it was necessary for the safety and pres¬ 
ervation of the whole band that so great an 
injury should not pass off unrevenged, another 
robber, who flattered himself with hopes of better 
success than he who had just been punished, 
presented himself, and requested the preference. 
It was granted him. He went to the city, 
corrupted Baba Mustapha by the same artifice 
that the first had used, and he led him to the 
house of Ali Baba with his eyes bound. 

The thief marked it with red in a place where 
it would be less discernible, thinking that would 
be a sure method of distinguishing it from those 
that were marked with white. But, a short 
time after, Morgiana went out as on the pre¬ 
ceding day, and, on her return, the red mark 
did not escape her piercing eye. She reasoned 
as before, and did not fail to make a similar red 
mark on the neighbouring doors. 

The thief, when he returned to his companions 


3i 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


in the forest, boasted of the precautions he had 
taken, which he declared to be infallible, to 
distinguish the house of Ali Baba from the 
others. The captain and the rest thought with 
him that he was sure of success. They repaired 
to the city in the same order and with as much 
care as before, armed also in the same way, ready 
to execute the blow they meditated: the captain 
and the robber went immediately to the street 
where Ali Baba resided; but the same difficulty 
occurred as on the former occasion. The 
captain was irritated, and the thief in as great 
a consternation as he who had preceded him in 
the same business. 

Thus was the captain obliged to return again 
on that day with his comrades, as little satisfied 
with his expedition as he had been on the 
preceding one. The robber who was the author 
of the disappointment underwent the punish¬ 
ment to which he had beforehand voluntarily 
submitted himself. 

The captain, seeing his troop diminished by 
two brave associates, feared it might still 
decrease if he continued to trust to others the 
discovery of the house where Ali Baba resided. 
Their example convinced him that they did not 
all excel in affairs that depended on the head, as 
in those in which strength of arms was required. 
He therefore undertook the business himself: 
he went to the city, and, with the assistance of 
Baba Mustapha, who was ready to perform the 
same service for him which he had done for the 


3 ? 


Ali Baba 


other two, he found the house of Ali Baba, but 
not choosing to amuse himself in making marks 
on it, which had hitherto proved so fallacious, 
he examined it so thoroughly, not only by 
looking at it attentively, but by passing before 
it several times, that at last he was certain he 
could not mistake it. 

The captain, satisfied of having obtained the 
object of his journey by becoming acquainted 
with what he desired, returned to the forest, and, 
when he had reached the cave where the rest 
of the robbers were waiting his return, “Com¬ 
rades,” said he, addressing them, “nothing now 
can prevent our taking full revenge for the 
injury that has been done us. I know with 
certainty the house of the culprit who is to 
experience it; and, on the road, I have meditated 
a way of making him feel it so privately that no 
one shall be able to discover the place of our 
retreat any more than that where our treasure 
is deposited; for this must be our principal object 
in our enterprise, otherwise, instead of being 
serviceable, it will only prove fatal to us all. 
This is what I have conceived to obtain this 
end, and, when I have explained the plan to you, 
if any one can propose a better expedient, let him 
communicate it.” He then told them in what 
manner he intended to conduct the affair, and, 
as they all gave their approbation, he charged 
them to divide into small parties, and go into 
the neighbouring towns and villages, and to buy 
nineteen mules and thirty-eight large leather 


33 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


jars to carry oil, one of which must be full, and 
all the others empty. 

In the course of two or three days, the thieves 
had completed their purchases; and as the 
empty jars were rather too narrow at the mouth 
for the purpose for which he intended them, the 
captain had them enlarged. Then, having 
made one of his men enter each jar, armed as he 
thought necessary, he closed them so as to appear 
full of oil, leaving, however, that part open 
which had been unsewed, to admit air for them 
to breathe; and the better to carry on the de¬ 
ception, he rubbed the outside of the jars with 
oil, which he took from the full one. 

Things being thus disposed, the mules were 
laden with the thirty-seven robbers, each 
concealed in a jar, and with the jar that was 
filled with oil; when the captain, as conductor, 
took the road to the city at the hour that had 
been agreed, and arrived about an hour after 
sunset, as he proposed. He went straight to the 
house of Ali Baba, intending to knock, and 
request admission for the night for himself and 
his mules. He was, however, spared the trouble 
of knocking; he found Ali Baba at the door, 
enjoying the fresh air after supper. He stopped 
his mules, and, addressing himself to Ali Baba, 
“Sir,” said he, “I have brought the oil which 
you see from a great distance to sell it to-morrow 
at the market, and, at this late hour, I do not 
know where to go to pass the night; if it would not 
occasion you much inconvenience, do me the 


34 


Ali Baba 


favour to take me in for the night; you will 
confer a great obligation on me.” 

Although Ali Baba had seen the man who 
now spoke to him in the forest, and even heard 
his voice, yet he had no idea that this was the 
captain of the forty robbers disguised as an oil 
merchant. ‘‘You are welcome,” said he, and 
immediately made room for him and his mules 
to go in. At the same time, Ali Baba called a 
slave he had, and ordered him, when the mules 
were unladen, not only to put them under 
cover in the stable, but also to give them some 
hay and com. He also took the trouble of 
going into the kitchen to desire Morgiana to get 
a supper quickly for a guest who was just arrived, 
and to prepare him a chamber and bed. 

Ali Baba did more to receive his guest with all 
possible civility; observing, after he had unladen 
his mules, and they were taken into the stables, as 
he had commanded, that he was seeking for a 
place to pass the night in, he went to him 
to beg him to come into the room where he 
received company, saying that he could not 
suffer him to think of passing the night in the 
court. The captain of the thieves endeavoured 
to excuse himself from accepting the invitation 
under the pretence of not caring to give trouble, 
but, in reality, that he might have an opportunity 
of more easily executing what he meditated; and 
it was not until Ali Baba had used the most 
urgent persuasions that he complied with his 
request. 


35 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Ali Baba not only remained with his perfidious 
guest, who sought his life in return for his 
hospitality, until Morgiana had served the 
supper, but he conversed with him on various 
subjects which he thought might amuse him, 
and did not leave him till he had finished the 
repast he had provided. He then said, “You 
are at liberty to do as you please; you have 
only to ask for whatever you may want, and 
everything I have is at your service.” 

The captain of the robbers got up at the 
same time with Ali Baba, and accompanied him 
to the door, and, while the latter went into the 
kitchen to speak to Morgiana, he went into the 
court, under the pretext of going to the stable to 
see after his mules. 

Ali Baba having again enjoined Morgiana to be 
attentive to his guest, and to observe that he 
wanted nothing, added, “I give you notice that 
to-morrow, before daybreak, I shall go to the 
bath. Take care that my bathing-linen is 
ready, and give it to Abdallah” (this was the 
name of his slave), “and make me some good 
broth to take when I return.” After giving 
these orders, he went to bed. 

The captain of the robbers, in the meantime, 
on leaving the stable, went to give his people the 
necessary orders for what they were to do. 
Beginning from the first jar, and going through 
the whole number, he said to each, “When I 
shall throw some pebbles from the chamber 
where I am to be lodged to-night, do not fail 
36 


Ali Baba 


to rip open the jar from top to bottom with the 
knife you are furnished with, and to come out; 
I shall be with you immediately after.” The 
knives he spoke of were pointed and sharpened 
for the purpose. This being done, he returned, 
and, when he got to the kitchen door, Morgiana 
took a light, and conducted him to the chamber 
she had prepared for him, and there left him, 
first asking him if he were in want of anything 
more. Not to create any suspicion, he put out 
the light a short time after, and lay down in his 
clothes, to be ready to rise as soon as he had 
taken his first sleep. 

Morgiana did not forget Ali Baba’s orders: 
she prepared his linen for the bath, and gave it 
to Abdallah, who was not yet gone to bed, and 
put the pot on the fire to make the broth; but, 
while she was skimming it, the lamp went out. 
There was no more oil in the house, and she had 
not any candle. She knew not what to do. 
She wanted a light to see to skim the pot, and 
mentioned her disaster to Abdallah. “Why are 
you so much disturbed at it?” said he; “go and 
take some oil out of one of the jars in the court.” 

Morgiana thanked Abdallah for the hint, and, 
while he retired to bed in the next room to Ali 
Baba that he might be ready to go with him to 
the bath, she took the oil-can, and went into the 
court. As she drew near to the first jar that 
presented itself, the thief who was concealed 
within said in a low voice, “Is it time?” 

Although he had spoken softly, Morgiana was 

37 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


nevertheless struck with the sound, which she 
heard the more distinctly as the captain, when 
he had unladen his mules, had opened all the 
jars, and this among the rest, to give a little air 
to his men, who, though not absolutely deprived 
of breathing-room, were nevertheless in an 
uneasy situation. 

Any other slave except Morgiana, in the first 
moment of surprise at finding a man in the 
jar instead of some oil, as she expected, would 
have made a great uproar, which might have 
created irremediable misfortune. But Morgiana 
was superior to those usually in her station: 
she was instantly aware of the importance of 
secrecy in the affair, and the extreme danger in 
which Ali Baba and his family were as well as 
herself, and also the urgent necessity of devising 
a speedy remedy that should be executed with 
privacy. Her quick imagination soon conceived 
the means. She collected her thoughts, and, 
without showing any emotion, she assumed the 
manner of the captain, and answered, “Not yet, 
but presently.” She approached the next jar, 
and the same question was asked her; she went 
on to them all in succession, making the same 
answer to the same question, till she came to 
the last, which was full of oil. 

Morgiana by this means discovered that her 
master, who supposed he was giving a night’s 
lodging to an oil merchant only, had afforded 
shelter to thirty-eight robbers, including the 
pretended merchant, their captain. She quickly 
38 


Ali Baba 


filled her oil-can from the last jar, and returned 
into the kitchen; and, after having put some oil 
in her lamp and lighted it, she took a large kettle, 
and went again into the court to fill it with oil 
from the jar. This done, she brought it back 
again, put it over the fire, and made a great 
blaze under it with a quantity of wood; for the 
sooner the oil boiled, the sooner her plan, which 
was for the welfare of the whole family, would 
be executed, and it required the utmost dispatch. 
At length the oil boiled. She took the kettle, 
and poured into each jar, from the first to the 
last, sufficient boiling oil to scald the robbers 
and deprive them of life, which she effected 
according to her wishes. 

This act, so worthy of the intrepidity of 
Morgiana, being performed without noise or 
disturbance to any one, exactly as she, had 
conceived it, she returned to the kitchen with 
the empty kettle, and shut the door. She put 
out the large fire she had made up for this pur¬ 
pose, and left only enough to finish boiling the 
broth for Ali Baba. She then blew out the 
lamp, and remained perfectly silent, determined 
not to go to bed until she had observed what 
would ensue, as much as the obscurity of night 
would allow her to distinguish, from a window 
of the kitchen which overlooked the court. 

Morgiana had scarcely waited a quarter of an 
hour when the captain of the robbers awoke. 
He got up, and opening the window, looked out: 
all was dark, and a profound silence reigned; 


39 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


he gave the signal by throwing the pebbles, many 
of which fell on the jars, as the sound plainly 
proved. He listened, but heard nothing that 
could lead him to suppose his men obeyed the 
summons. He became uneasy at this delay, and 
threw some pebbles down a second and even a 
third time. They all struck the jars, yet nothing 
appeared to indicate that they were heard: he 
was at a loss to account for the mystery. He 
descended into the court in the utmost alarm, 
with as little noise as possible, and approached 
the first jar. As he was going to ask whether the 
robber contained in it, and whom he supposed 
still living, was asleep, he smelt a strong scent of 
hot and burning oil issuing from the jar, by 
which he suspected his enterprise against Ali 
Baba to destroy him, pillage his house, and 
carry off, if possible, all the money which he 
had taken from him and the community, had 
failed. He proceeded to the next jar, and to all 
in succession, and discovered that all his men 
had shared the same fate; and, by the diminution 
of the oil in that which he had brought full, he 
guessed the means that had been used to deprive 
him of the assistance he expected. Mortified 
at having thus missed his aim, he jumped over 
the garden gate which led out of the court, and, 
going from one garden to another by getting 
over the walls, he made his escape. 

When Morgiana perceived that all was still 
and silent, and that the captain of the thieves 
did not return, she concluded he had decamped 


40 


Ali Baba 


as he did, instead of attempting to escape by the 
house door, which was fastened with double 
bolts. Fully satisfied and overjoyed at having 
so well succeeded in securing the safety of the 
whole family, she at length retired to bed, and 
soon fell asleep. 

Ali Baba went out before daybreak and, 
followed by his slave, repaired to the bath, totally 
ignorant of the surprising event which had taken 
place in his house during his sleep, for Morgiana 
had not thought it necessary to wake him, par¬ 
ticularly as she had no time to lose while she was 
engaged in her perilous enterprise, and it was 
useless to interrupt his repose after she had 
averted the danger. 

When he returned from the bath, the sun 
being risen, Ali Baba was surprised to see that 
the jars of oil were still in their places, and that 
the merchant had not taken them to the market 
with his mules; he inquired the reason of Mor¬ 
giana, who let him in, and who had left everything 
in its original state, in order to show him the 
deceit which had been practised on him, and to 
convince him more sensibly of the effort she 
had made for his preservation. 

“My good master,” said Morgiana in reply 
to Ali Baba’s question, “may God preserve you 
and all your family. You will be better informed 
of what you wish to know when you shall have 
seen what I am going to show you, if you will 
take the trouble to come with me.” Ali Baba 
followed Morgiana, and when she had shut the 


4i 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


door, she took him to the first jar, and bade him 
look in and see whether it contained oil. He 
did as she desired, and, perceiving a man in the 
jar, he hastily drew back, and uttered a cry of 
surprise. “Do not be afraid,” said she, “the 
man you see there will not do you any harm; 
he has attempted it, but he will never hurt either 
you or any one else again, for he is now a corpse.” 
“Morgiana,” exclaimed Ali Baba, “what does 
all this mean? Do explain this mystery.” “I 
will explain it,” replied Morgiana; “but moderate 
your astonishment, and do not awaken the 
curiosity of your neighbours to learn what it is 
of the utmost importance that you should keep 
secret and concealed. Look, first, at all the 
other jars.” 

Ali Baba examined all the rest of the jars, one 
after another, from the first till he came to the 
last, which contained the oil, and he remarked 
that its contents were considerably diminished. 
This operation being completed, he remained 
motionless with astonishment, sometimes casting 
his eyes on Morgiana, then looking at the jars, 
yet without speaking a word, so great was his 
surprise. At length, as if speech were suddenly 
restored to him, he said, “And what is become 
of the merchant?” 

“The merchant,” replied Morgiana, “is just 
as much a merchant as I am. I can tell you 
who he is, and what is become of him; but you 
will hear the whole history more conveniently 
in your own chamber, for it is now time, for the 


42 


Ali Baba 


sake of your health, that you should take your 
broth after coming out of the bath.” Whilst 
Ali Baba went into his room, Morgiana returned 
to the kitchen to get the broth; and, when she 
brought it, before Ali Baba would take it, he 
said, “ Begin to relate this wonderful history, and 
satisfy the extreme impatience I feel to know all 
its circumstances.” 

Morgiana, in obedience to Ali Baba’s request, 
detailed the events of the preceding night, 
adding, as she concluded, “I am convinced that 
this is the conclusion of a scheme of which I 
observed the beginning two or three days ago, 
but which I did not think it necessary to trouble 
you with an account of.” She then described 
the marks made upon the door, and the manner 
in which she had rendered them useless, adding, 
"If you connect this with what has happened, 
you will find that the whole is a machination 
contrived by the thieves of the forest, whose 
troop, I know not how, seems to have been 
diminished by two; but, be that as it may, it is 
now reduced to three at most. This proves that 
they are determined on your death, and you will 
do well to be on your guard against them so 
long as you are certain that even one remains. 
On my part, I will do all in my power towards 
your preservation, which, indeed, I consider 
my duty.” 

When Morgiana ceased speaking, Ali Baba, 
penetrated with gratitude for the great obligation 
he owed her, replied, ‘‘I will recompense you as 


43 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


you deserve before I die. I owe my life to you, 
and, to give you an immediate proof of my 
feelings on the occasion, I from this moment 
give you your liberty, and will soon reward you 
in a more ample manner. I am persuaded, as 
well as yourself, that the forty robbers laid this 
snare for me. God, through your agency, has 
delivered me from the danger. I hope He will 
continue to protect me from their malice, 
and that, by averting destruction from my 
head, He will make it recoil with greater certainty 
on them, and thus deliver the world from so 
dangerous and cursed a persecution. What we 
have now to do is to use the utmost dispatch in 
burying the bodies of this pest of the human 
race, yet with so much secrecy that no one shall 
entertain the slightest suspicion of their fate, 
and for this purpose I will instantly go to work 
with Abdallah.” 

Ali Baba’s garden was of a considerable 
length, and terminated by some large trees. 
He went without delay with his slave, to dig 
a grave under these trees of sufficient length and 
breadth to contain the bodies he had to inter. 
The ground was soft and easy to remove, so 
they were not long in completing their work. 
They took the bodies out of the jars, and set 
apart the arms with which the robbers had 
furnished themselves. They then carried the 
bodies to the bottom of the garden, and placed 
them in the grave, and, after having covered 
them with the earth they had previously removed, 


44 


Ali Baba 


they spread about what remained, to make the 
surface of the ground appear even, as it was 
before. Ali Baba carefully concealed the oil-jars 
and the arms: and as for the mules, of which 
he was not then in want, he sent them at dif¬ 
ferent times to the market, where he disposed of 
them by means of his slave. 

Whilst Ali Baba was taking these precautions 
to prevent its being publicly known by what 
means he had become rich in so short a space 
of time, the captain of the forty thieves had 
returned to the forest, mortified beyond measure 
at having met with such bad success. On 
reaching the cavern, the dismal solitude of this 
gloomy habitation appeared to him insupportable. 
“Brave companions!” cried he, “partners of 
my labours and my pains! where are you? 
What can I accomplish without your assistance? 
Did I select and assemble you only to see you 
perish all at one moment by a destiny so fatal 
and so unworthy of your courage? My regret 
for your loss would not have been so poignant 
had you died sabre in hand like valiant men. 
When shall I be able to collect together another 
troop of intrepid men like you ? and even should 
I wish it, how could I undertake it without 
exposing so much treasure in gold and silver 
to the mercy of him who hath already enriched 
himself with a part of it? I cannot, I must not 
think of such an enterprise until I have put an 
end to his existence. What I have not been 
able to accomplish with such powerful assistance, 

45 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


I will perform alone; and, when I shall have 
secured this immense property from being 
exposed to pillage, I will then endeavour to 
provide a master and successors for it after my 
decease, that it may be not only preserved, but 
augmented to the latest posterity.” Having 
formed this resolution, he felt no embarrassment 
as to the execution of it, and, filled with the 
most pleasing hopes, he fell asleep, and passed 
the rest of the night very quietly. 

The next morning, the captain of the robbers 
awoke at an early hour, as he had proposed, put 
on a dress suitable to his design, and repaired to 
the city, where he took a lodging in a khan. 
As he supposed that what had happened in the 
house of Ali Baba might have become generally 
known, he asked the host whether there were 
any news stirring; in reply to which, the host 
talked on a variety of subjects, but none relating 
to what he wished to be informed of. By 
this he concluded that the reason why Ali Baba 
kept the transaction so profoundly secret was 
that he did not wish it to be divulged that he 
had access to so immense a treasure, and also 
that he was apprehensive of his life’s being in 
danger on this account. This idea excited him 
to neglect nothing that could hasten his destruc¬ 
tion, which he intended to accomplish by means 
as secret as that which Ali Baba had adopted 
toward the robbers. 

The captain provided himself with a horse, 
which he made use of to convey to his lodging 
46 


Ali Baba 


several kinds of rich stuffs and fine linens, 
bringing them from the forest at various times, 
with all the necessary precautions for keeping 
the place from whence he brought them still 
concealed. In order to dispose of this mer¬ 
chandise, when he had collected together as 
much as he thought proper, he sought for a shop. 
Having found one that would suit him, he hired 
it of the proprietor, furnished it with goods, and 
established himself in it. The shop that was 
exactly opposite to his was that which had 
belonged to Cassim, and was now occupied by 
the son of Ali Baba. 

The captain of the robbers, who had assumed 
the name of Cogia Houssain, did not fail in the 
proper civilities to the neighbouring merchants, 
which for newcomers was the usual custom. 
But the son of Ali Baba, being young and of a 
pleasing address, and the captain having more 
frequent occasion to converse with him than with 
the others, he very soon formed an intimacy 
with him. This acquaintance he soon resolved 
to cultivate with greater assiduity and care, 
when, three or four days after he was settled in 
his shop, he recognised Ali Baba, who came to 
see his son, as he was in the constant habit of 
doing; and, on inquiring of the son after his 
departure, discovered that he was his father. 
He now increased his attentions and caresses to 
him; he made him several little presents, and 
also often invited him to his table, where he 
regaled him very handsomely. 

47 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


The son of Ali Baba did not desire so many 
compliments from Cogia Houssain without re¬ 
turning them. But his lodging was small, and 
he had no conveniences for entertaining him as 
he wished. He mentioned his intention to his 
father, adding that it was not proper that he 
should delay any longer to return the favours he 
had received from Cogia Houssain. 

Ali Baba very willingly took the charge of the 
entertainment. “My son,” said he, “to-morrow 
is Friday, and, as it is a day on which the most 
considerable merchants, such as Cogia Houssain 
and yourself, keep their shops shut, invite him 
to take a walk with you after dinner, and, as 
you return, direct your course so that you may 
pass my house, and then beg him to come in. 
It will be better to manage thus than to invite 
him in a formal way. I will give orders to 
Morgiana to prepare a supper, and have it ready 
by the time you come.” 

On the Friday, Cogia Houssain and the son of 
Ali Baba met in the afternoon to take their 
walk together, as had been agreed. On their 
return, the son of Ali Baba, as if by accident, 
led Cogia Houssain through the street in which 
his father lived, and, when they had reached 
the house, he stopped him, and knocked at the 
door. “This,” said he, “is my father’s house; 
he has desired me to procure him the honour of 
your acquaintance, after what I told him of your 
friendship for me. I entreat you to add this 
fayouj* fo the many I have received from you.” 

4 * 


Ali Baba 


Although Cogia Houssain had now reached the 
object of his desires, which was to gain ad¬ 
mission into the house of Ali Baba, and to at¬ 
tempt his life without hazarding his own or 
creating any suspicion, yet he now endeavoured 
to excuse himself, and pretended to take leave 
of the son; but as the slave of Ali Baba opened 
the door at that moment, the son, in an obliging 
manner, took him by the hand, and going in 
first, drew him forward, and, as it were, forced 
him to comply, though seemingly against his 
wishes. 

Ali Baba received Cogia Houssain in a friendly 
manner, and gave him as hearty a welcome as 
he could desire. He thanked him for his 
kindness to his son. “The obligation he is 
under to you,” added he, “as well as am I myself, 
is so much the more considerable, as he is a 
young man who has not yet been much in the 
world, and you have had the goodness to con¬ 
descend to form his manners.” 

Cogia Houssain did not spare his compliments 
in return for Ali Baba’s, assuring him that, 
although his son had not acquired the experience 
of older men, yet he was possessed of an amount 
of good sense which was of more service to him 
than experience was to many others. 

After a short conversation on topics of an 
indifferent nature, Cogia Houssain was going 
to take his leave, but Ali Baba stopped him. 
“Where are you going, sir?” said he; “I entreat 
you to do me the honour of staying to sup with 


49 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


me. The humble meal you will partake of is 
little worthy of the honour you will confer on it; 
but, such as it is, I hope you will accept the in¬ 
tention with as much good-will as I offer it.” 

“Sir,” replied Cogia Houssain, “I am fully 
persuaded of your kindness; and, although I 
beg you to excuse me if I take my leave without 
accepting your obliging invitation, yet I entreat 
you to believe that I refuse you, not from 
incivility or contempt, but because I have a very 
strong reason, and which I am sure you would 
approve, were it known to you.” 

“What might this reason be, sir,” resumed 
Ali Baba, “might I take the liberty of asking 
you?” “I do not refuse to tell it,” said Cogia 
Houssain. “It is this: I never eat of any dish 
that has salt in it. Judge, then, of the figure I 
should cut at your table.” “If this be your 
only reason,” replied Ali Baba, “it need not 
deprive me of the honour of your company at 
supper, unless you have absolutely determined 
otherwise. In the first place, the bread which 
is eaten in my house does not contain any 
salt; and, as for the meat and other dishes, I 
promise you there shall be none in those which 
are served before you. I will now go to give 
orders to that effect; you will, therefore, do me 
the favour to remain, and I will be with you in 
an instant.” 

Ali Baba went into the kitchen, and desired 
Morgiana not to put any salt to the meat she 
was going to serve for supper, and also to prepare, 

50 


Ali Baba 


without any salt, two or three dishes of those 
that he had ordered. 

Morgiana, who was just going to serve the 
supper, could not avoid expressing some dis¬ 
content at this new order, and making some 
inquiries of Ali Baba. “Who,” said she, “is 
this capricious man, that cannot eat salt? Your 
supper will be good for nothing if I delay it any 
later.” “Do not be angry,” replied Ali Baba: 
“he is a good man; do what I desire you.” 

Morgiana obeyed, though much against her 
will; and she felt some curiosity to see this man 
who did not eat salt. When she had finished, 
and Abdallah had prepared the table, she assisted 
him in carrying the dishes. On looking at 
Cogia Houssain, she instantly recognised him 
to be the captain of the robbers, notwithstanding 
his disguise; and, examining him with great 
attention, she perceived that he had a dagger 
concealed under his dress. “I am no longer 
surprised,” said she to herself, “that this villain 
will not eat salt with my master; he is his 
bitterest enemy, and means to murder him; but 
I will still prevent him from accomplishing his 
purpose.” 

When Morgiana had finished serving the 
dishes and assisting Abdallah, she availed herself 
of the time while they were at supper, and made 
the necessary preparations for the execution of 
an enterprise of the boldest and most intrepid 
nature; and she had just completed them when 
Abdallah came to inform her that it was time to 


5 * 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


serve the fruit. She carried it in; and, when 
Abdallah had taken away the supper, she placed 
it on the table. She then put a small table 
near Ali Baba, with the wine and three cups, and 
left the room with Abdallah, as if to go to supper 
together, and to leave Ali Baba, according to 
custom, at liberty to converse and entertain 
himself with his guest and to push the wine 
about. 

Cogia Houssain, or rather the captain of the 
forty thieves, now thought that a favourable 
opportunity for revenging himself on Ali Baba, 
by taking his life, was arrived. “I will make 
them both intoxicated," thought he, “and then 
the son, against whom I bear no malice, will 
not prevent my plunging my dagger into the 
heart of his father, and I shall escape by way 
of the garden, as I did before, while the cook 
and the slave are at their supper, or perhaps 
asleep in the kitchen.” 

Instead, however, of going to supper, Morgiana, 
who had penetrated into the views of the pre¬ 
tended Cogia Houssain, did not allow him time 
to put his wicked intentions into execution. 
She dressed herself like a dancer, put on a head¬ 
dress suitable to that character, and wore 
round her waist a girdle of silver gilt, to which 
she fastened a dagger made of the same metal. 
Her face was covered with a very handsome 
mask. When she had thus disguised herself, 
she said to Abdallah, “Take your tabor, and let 
us go and entertain our master's guest, who 

5 2 


Ali Baba 


is the friend of his son, as we do sometimes with 
our performances.” 

Abdallah took his tabor, and began to play as 
he walked before Morgiana, and entered the 
room. Morgiana following him, made a low 
courtesy with a deliberate air to attract notice, 
as if to request permission to do what she could 
to amuse the company. Abdallah perceiving 
that Ali Baba was going to speak, ceased striking 
his tabor. ‘‘Come in, Morgiana,” cried Ali Baba; 
‘‘Cogia Houssain will judge of your skill, and 
tell us his opinion. Do not, however, suppose, 
sir,” continued he, addressing Cogia Houssain, 
‘‘that I have been at any expense to procure 
you this entertainment. We have composed it 
all ourselves, and it is only my slave and my 
cook and housekeeper whom you see. I hope 
you will find it amusing.” 

Cogia Houssain did not expect Ali Baba to 
add this entertainment to the supper he had 
given him. This made him apprehensive that 
he should not be able to avail himself of the 
opportunity he thought now presented itself. 
But, should that be the case, he still consoled 
himself with the hopes of meeting with another, 
if he continued the acquaintance with Ali Baba 
and his son. Therefore, although he would 
gladly have dispensed with this addition to the 
entertainment, he nevertheless pretended to be 
obliged to him, and added that whatever gave 
Ali Baba pleasure could not fail of being agreeable 
to him. 


53 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


When Abdallah perceived that Ali Baba and 
Cogia Houssain had ceased speaking, he again 
began to play on his tabor, singing to it an air 
for Morgiana to dance to; she, who was equal to 
any of those who practised dancing for their 
profession, performed her part so admirably that 
every spectator who had seen her must have 
been delighted, independently of the present 
company, of which, perhaps, Cogia Houssain 
was the least attentive to her excellence. 

After having performed several dances with 
equal grace and agility, she at length drew out 
the dagger, and, dancing with it in her hand, 
she surpassed all she had yet done by her light 
movements and high leaps, and by the wonderful 
efforts which she interspersed in the figure— 
sometimes presenting the dagger as if to strike, 
and, at others, holding it to her own bosom, 
pretending to stab herself. 

At length, as if out of breath, she took the 
tabor from Abdallah with her left hand, and 
holding the dagger in her right, she presented the 
tabor with the hollow part upwards to Ali Baba, 
in imitation of the dancers by profession, who 
make use of this practice to invite the liberality 
of the spectators. 

Ali Baba threw a piece of gold into the tabor. 
Morgiana then presented it to his son, who 
followed his father’s example. Cogia Houssain, 
who saw that she was advancing toward him 
for the same purpose, had already taken his 
purse from his bosom to contribute his present, 

54 


Ali Baba 


and was putting his hand in it, when Morgiana, 
with a courage and fortitude equal to the 
resolution she had taken, plunged the dagger 
into his heart so deep that the life-blood streamed 
from the wound when she withdrew it. 

Ali Baba and his son, terrified at this action, 
uttered a loud cry. “Wretch!” exclaimed Ali 
Baba, “what hast thou done? Thou hast ruined 
me and my family for ever! ” 

“What I have done,” replied Morgiana, “is 
not for your ruin, but for your salvation.” 
Then opening Cogia Houssain’s robe to show 
Ali Baba the poniard which was concealed under 
it, “See,” continued she, “the cruel enemy you 
had to deal with; examine his countenance 
attentively, and you will recognise the pretended 
oil merchant and the captain of the forty robbers. 
Do you not recollect that he refused to eat salt 
with you? Can you require a stronger proof of 
his malicious intentions? Before I even saw 
him, from the moment you told me of this 
peculiarity in your s guest, I suspected his design, 
and you are now convinced that my suspicions 
were not ill-founded.” 

Ali Baba, who was now aware of the fresh 
obligation he owed to Morgiana for having thus 
preserved his life a second time, embraced her, 
and said: “Morgiana, I gave you your liberty, 
and, at the same time, promised to give you 
stronger proofs of my gratitude at some future 
period. This period is now arrived, and I 
present you to my son as his wife.” Then 

55 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


addressing his son: “I believe you,” said he, 
“to be so dutiful a son that you will not take it 
amiss if I should bestow Morgiana upon you 
without previously consulting your inclinations. 
Your obligation to her is not less than mine. 
You plainly see that Cogia Houssain only 
sought your acquaintance in order to insure 
success in his diabolical treachery; and, had he 
sacrificed me to his vengeance, you cannot 
suppose that you would have been spared. 
You must further consider that, in marrying 
Morgiana, you connect yourself with the pre¬ 
server of my family, and the support of yours to 
the end of your days.” 

His son, far from showing any symptoms of 
discontent, said that he willingly consented to 
the marriage, not only because he was desirous 
of proving his ready obedience to his father’s 
wishes, but also because his inclinations strongly 
urged him to the union. They then began to 
prepare for the interment of the captain of the 
robbers by the side of his former companions; 
and this was performed with such secrecy, that 
the circumstance was not known till the ex¬ 
piration of many years, when no one was any 
longer interested in keeping this memorable 
history concealed. 

A few days after, Ali Baba had the nuptials 
of his son and Morgiana celebrated with great 
solemnity, and he had the satisfaction of ob¬ 
serving that the friends and neighbours he had 
invited, who did not know the true reason of 
56 


Ali Baba 


the marriage, but were not unacquainted with 
the good qualities of Morgiana, admired his 
generosity and discrimination. 

After the marriage was solemnised, Ali Baba, 
who had not revisited the cave since he had 
brought away the body of his brother Cassim on 
one of the three asses, together with the gold 
with which the other two were laden, lest he 
should meet with any of the thieves and be 
surprised by them, still refrained from going, 
even after the death of the thirty-seven robbers 
and their captain, as he was ignorant of the fate 
of the other two, and supposed them to be still 
alive. 

At the expiration of a year, however, finding 
that no scheme had been attempted to disturb 
his quiet, he had the curiosity to make a journey 
to the cave, taking the necessary precaution for 
his safety. He mounted his horse, and, when 
he had nearly reached the cave, seeing no 
traces of either men or horses, he conceived it 
to be a favourable omen; he dismounted, and 
repeated the words, “Open Sesame,” which he 
had not forgotten. The door opened, and he 
entered. The state in which everything ap¬ 
peared in the cave led him to judge that no one 
had been in it from the time that the pretended 
Cogia Houssain had opened his shop in the 
city, and he therefore concluded that the whole 
troop of robbers was exterminated, and that he 
was the only person in the whole world who was 
acquainted with the secret for entering the cave, 

57 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


and, consequently, that the immense treasure it 
contained was entirely at his disposal. He had 
provided himself with a large wallet, and he 
filled it with as much gold as his horse could 
carry, after which he returned to the city. 

From that time, Ali Baba and his son, whom 
he took to the cave and taught the secret to 
enter it, and after them their posterity, who 
were also entrusted with the important secret, 
enjoying their riches with moderation, lived in 
great splendour, and were honoured with the 
most dignified situations in the city. 


53 


THE GRIDIRON 


BY 

Samuel Lover 

A certain old gentleman in the west of Ire¬ 
land, whose love of the ridiculous quite equalled 
his taste for claret and fox-hunting, was wont, 
upon certain festive occasions when opportunity 
offered, to amuse his friends by “drawing out” 
one of his servants who was exceedingly fond of 
what he termed his “thravels,” and in whom a 
good deal of whim, some queer stories, and, per¬ 
haps more than all, long and faithful service, had 
established a right of loquacity. He was one of 
those few trusty and privileged domestics who, 
if his master unheedingly uttered a rash thing 
in a fit of passion, would venture to set him 
right. If the squire said, “I’ll turn that rascal 
off,” my friend Pat would say, “Troth you 
won’t, sir; and Pat was always right, for 
if any altercation arose upon the subject- 
matter in hand, he was sure to throw in 
some good reason, either from former service— 
general good conduct — or the delinquent’s 
“wife and childher”—that always turned the 
scale. 

But I am digressing; on such merry meetings 
as I have alluded to, the master, after making 
certain “approaches,” as a military man would 

59 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


say, as the preparatory steps in laying siege to 
some extravagance of his servant, might per¬ 
chance assail Pat thus: “By-the-by, Sir John" 
(addressing a distinguished guest), "Pat has 
a very curious story, which something you 
told me to-day reminds me of. You remem¬ 
ber, Pat” (turning to the man, evidently 
pleased at the notice paid to himself)—"you 
remember that queer adventure you had in 
France?” 

"Throth I do, sir,” grins forth Pat. 

"What!” exclaims Sir John, in feigned sur¬ 
prise, "was Pat ever in France?” 

"Indeed he was,” cries mine host; and Pat 
adds, "Ay, and farther, plaze your honour.” 

"I assure you, Sir John,” continues my 
host, "Pat told me a story once that surprised 
me very much, respecting the ignorance of the 
French.” 

"Indeed!” rejoins the baronet; "really, I al¬ 
ways supposed the French to be a most accom¬ 
plished people.” 

"Throth then, they are not, sir,” interrupts 
Pat. 

"Oh, by no means,” adds mine host, shaking 
his head empathically. 

"I believe, Pat, ’twas when you were crossing 
the Atlantic?” says the master, turning to Pat 
with a seductive air, and leading into the "full 
and true account” (for Pat had thought fit to 
visit "North Amerikay,” for a "raison he had” 
in the autumn of the year ’98). 

60 


The Gridiron 


“Yes, sir,” says Pat, “the broad Atlantic”— 
a favourite phrase of his, which he gave with a 
brogue as broad almost as the Atlantic itself. 

“It was the time I was lost in crassin’ the broad 
Atlantic, cornin’ home,” began Pat, decoyed 
into the recital; “whin the winds began to blow, 
and the sae to rowl, that you’d think the Colleen 
dhas (that was her name) would not have a mast 
left but what would rowl out of her. 

“Well, sure enough, the masts went by the 
board at last, and the pumps was choak’d (divil 
choak them for that same), and av coorse the 
weather gained an us, and throth, to be filled 
with wather is neither good for man or baste; 
and she was sinkin’ fast, settlin’ down, as the 
sailors calls it, and faith I never was good at set¬ 
tlin’ down in my life, and I liked it then less nor 
ever; accordingly we prepared for the worst, and 
put out the boat, and got a sack of bishkits, and 
a cashk o’ pork, and a kag o’ wather, and a thrifle 
o’ rum aboord, and any other little matthers we 
could think iv in the mortial hurry we wor in— 
and, faith, there was no time to be lost, for my 
darlint, the Colleen dhas , went down like a lump 
o’ lead, afore we wor many sthrokes o’ the oar 
away from her. 

“Well, we dhrifted away all that night, and 
next momin’ we put up a blanket an the ind av 
a pole as well as we could, and thin we sailed 
illigant, for we dam’t show a stitch o’ canvas the 
night before, bekase it was blowin’ like murther, 
savin’ your presence, and sure it’s the wondher 
61 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


of the world we wom’t swally’d alive by the ragin’ 
sae. 

“Well, away we wint for more nor a week, and 
nothin’ before our two good-lookin’ eyes but the 
canophy iv heaven, and the wide ocean—the 
broad Atlantic—not a thing was to be seen but 
the sae and the sky ; and though the sae and the 
sky is mighty purty things in themselves, throth 
they’re no great things whin you’ve nothin’ else 
to look at for a week together—and the barest 
rock in the world, so it was land, would be more 
welkim. And then, sure enough, throth, our 
provisions began to run low, the bishkits, and 
the wather, and the rum—throth that was gone 
first of all, God help uz—and oh! it was thin that 
starvation began to stare us in the face—‘Oh, 
murther, murther, captain, darling!’ says I, ‘I 
wish we could see land anywhere,’ says I. 

“ ‘More power to your elbow, Paddy, my boy,’ 
says he, ‘for sich a good wish, and throth, it’s 
myself wishes the same.’ 

“‘Oh,’ says I, ‘that it may plaze you, sweet 
queen in heaven, supposin’ it was only a dissolute 
island,’ says I, ‘inhabited with Turks, sure they 
wouldn’t be such bad Christians as to refuse uz 
a bit and a sup.’ 

“‘Whisht, whisht, Paddy!’ says the captain, 
‘don’t be talkin’ bad of any one,’ says he; * you 
don’t know how soon you may want a good word 
put in for yourself, if you should be called to 
quarthers in th’ other world all of a suddent,’ 
says he. 


62 


The Gridiron 


‘“Thrue for you, captain, darlint,’ says I—I 
called him Darlint, and made free wid him, you 
see, bekase disthress makes uz all equal—‘thrue 
for you, captain, jewel—God betune us and harm, 
I owe no man any spite’—and throth, that was 
only truth. Well, the last bishkit was sarved 
out, and by gor the wather itself was all gone at 
last, and we passed the night mighty cowld. 
Well, at the brake o’ day the sun riz most beauti¬ 
ful out o’ the waves, that was as bright as silver 
and as clear as cryshthal. But it was only the 
more crule upon uz, for we wor beginnin’ to feel 
terrible hungry; when all at wanst I thought I 
spied the land—by gor, I thought I felt my 
heart up in my throat in a minnit, and 
‘Thundher and turf, captain,’ says I, ‘look to 
leeward,’ says I. 

“‘What for?’ says hfc. 

“‘I think I see the land,’ says I. So he ups 
with his bring-’um-near (that’s what the sailors 
call a spy-glass, sir) and looks out, and, sure 
enough, it was. 

“‘Hurra!’ says he, ‘we’re all right now; pull 
away, my boys,’ says he. 

“‘Take care you’re not mistaken,’ says I; 
‘maybe it’s only a fog-bank, captain, darlint,’ 
says I. 

'“Oh, no,’ says he; ‘it’s the land in aimest.' 

“ ‘Oh, then, whereabouts in the wide world are 
we, captain?’ says I; ‘maybe it id be in Roosia 
or Proosia, or the German Oceant,’ says I. 

“ ‘Tut, you fool,’ says he—for he had that con- 

63 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


saited way wid him, thinkin’ himself cleverer nor 
any one else—‘that’s France,’ says he. 

"‘Hare an ouns,’ says I, ‘do you tell me so? 
and how do you know it’s France it is, captain 
dear?’ says I. 

‘“Bekase this is the Bay o’ Bishky we’re in 
now,’ says he. 

“ ‘Throth, I was thinkin’ so myself,’ says I, ‘by 
the rowl it has; for I often heerd av it in regard 
o’ that same;' and throth, the likes av it I never 
seen before nor since, and, with the help o’ God, 
never will. 

“Well, with that my heart began to grow 
light, and when I seen my life was safe, I began 
to grow twice hungrier nor ever—so says 
I, ‘Captain, jewel, I wish we had a gridiron.’ 

“‘Why then,’ says he, ‘thunder and turf,' says 
he, ‘what puts a gridiron into your head?’ 

“ ‘Bekase I’m starvin’ with the hunger,’ says I. 

“‘And sure, bad luck to you,’ says he, ‘you 
couldn’t ate a gridiron,’ says he, ‘barrin’ you wor 
a pelican o’ the wildhemess,’ says he. 

“‘Ate a gridiron!’ says I; ‘och, in throth, I’m 
not such a gommoch all out as that, anyhow. 
But sure if we had a gridiron we could dress a 
beefsteak,’ says I. 

‘“Arrah! but where’s the beefsteak?’ says he. 

“‘Sure, couldn’t we cut a slice aff the pork?’ 
says I. 

“‘By gor, I never thought o’ that,’ says the 
captain. ‘You’re a clever fellow, Paddy,’ says 
he, laughin’. 


64 


The Gridiron 


"‘Oh, there’s many a thrue word said in a 
joke,’ says I. 

"'Thrue for you, Paddy,’ says he. 

'“Well, thin,’ says I, ‘if you put me ashore 
there beyant ’ (for we were nearin’ the land all the 
time), ‘ and sure I can ask thim for to lind me the 
loan of a gridiron,’ says I. 

"‘Oh, by gor, the butther’s cornin’ out o’ the 
stirabout in aimest now,’ says he; ‘you gom- 
moch,’ says he, ‘sure I towld you before that’s 
France—and sure they’re all furriners there,’ says 
the captain. 

"‘Well,’ says I, ‘and how do you know but I’m 
as good a furriner myself as any o’ thim?’ 

‘“What do you mane?’ says he. 

‘“I mane,’ says I, ‘what I told you, that I’m 
as good a furriner myself as any o’ thim.’ 

"‘Make me sinsible,’ says he. 

"' Bedad, maybe that’s more nor me, or greater 
nor me, could do,’ says I—and we all began to 
laugh at him, for I thought I’d pay him aff for 
his bit o’ consait about the German Oceant. 

‘“Lave off your humbuggin’,’ says he, ‘I bid 
you, and tell me what it is you mane at all at all.’ 

" ‘Parley voo frongsay,' says I. 

‘“Oh, your humble servant,’ says he. ‘Why, 
by gor, you’re a scholar, Paddy.’ 

‘“Throth, you may say that,’ says I. 

‘“Why, you’re a clever fellow, Paddy,’ says 
the captain, jeerin’-like. 

"‘You’re not the first that said that,’ says I, 
4 whether you joke or no.’ 

65 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


'“Oh, but I’m in aimest,’ says the captain— 
'and do you tell me, Paddy,’ says he, ‘that you 
spake Frinch?’ 

'“Parley voo frongsay ,’ says I. 

“‘By gor, that bangs Banagher. I never met 
the likes o’ you, Paddy,’ says he. ‘Pull away, 
boys, and put Paddy ashore.’ 

“So with that, it was no sooner said nor done 
—they pulled away and got close into shore in 
less than no time, and run the boat up in a little 
creek; and a beautiful creek it was, with a lovely 
white sthrand, an illigant place for ladies to bathe 
in the summer—and out I got; and it’s stiff 
enough in my limbs I was afther bein’ cramped 
up in the boat, and perished with the cowld and 
hunger; but I con thrived to scramble on, one 
way or the other, tow’rd a little bit iv a wood that 
was close to the shore, and the smoke curlin’ out 
of it, quite timptin’-like. 

“ ‘By the powdhers o’ war, I’m all right,’ says 
I; ‘there’s a house there’—and sure enough 
there was, and a parcel of men, women and 
childher, ating their dinner round a table quite 
convenient. And so I wint up to the dure, and I 
thought I’d be very civil to thim—as I heerd the 
Frinch was always mighty p’lite intirely—and I 
thought I’d show them I knew what good man¬ 
ners was. 

“So I took off my hat, and making a low bow, 
says I, ‘God save all here,’ says I. 

“Well, to be sure, they all stopt ating at wanst, 
and begun to stare at me, and faith they almost 
66 


The Gridiron 


looked me out of countenance—and I thought to 
myself it was not good manners at all—more be 
token from furriners, which they call so mighty 
p’lite; but I never minded that, in regard of 
wantin’ the gridiron; ‘and so,’ says I, ‘I beg your 
pardon,’ says I, ‘for the liberty I take, but it’s 
only bein’ in disthress in regard of ating,’ says I, 
‘that I make bowld to throuble yez, and if you 
could lind me the loan of a gridiron,’ says I, ‘I’d 
be intirely obleeged to ye.’ 

“By gor, they all stared at me twice worse nor 
before, and with that, says I (knowing what was 
in their minds), ‘ Indeed it’s thrue for you,’ says I; 
‘I’m tatthered to pieces, and God knows I look 
quare enough, but it’s by raison of the storm,’ 
says I, ‘which dhruv us ashore here below, and 
we’re all starvin’,’ says I. 

“So thin they began to look at each other agin, 
and myself, seeing at wanst dirty thoughts was 
in their heads, and that they tuk me for a poor 
beggar cornin’ to crave charity—with that, says 
I, ‘ Oh! not at all, ’ says I, ‘ by no manes; we have 
plenty o’ mate ourselves, there below, and we’ll 
dhress it,’ says I, ‘if you would be plazed to lind 
us the loan of a gridiron,’ says I, makin’ a low 
bow. 

“Well, sir, with that throth they stared at me 
twice worse nor ever, and faith I began to think 
that maybe the captain was wrong, and that it 
was not France at all at all—and so says I, ‘ I beg 
pardon, sir,’ says I, to a fine old man, with a 
head of hair as white as silver—‘maybe I’m 
67 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


undher a mistake,’ says I, ‘but I thought I was 
in France, sir; aren’t you furriners?’ says I— 
‘ Parley voo frongsay f ’ 

“‘We, munseer,’ says he. 

“ ‘Then would you lind me the loan of a grid¬ 
iron,’ says I, ‘if you plaze?’ 

“Oh, it was thin that they stared at me as if I 
had siven heads; and faith myself began to feel 
flusthered like, and onaisy—and so says I, making 
a bow and scrape agin, ‘I know it’s a liberty I 
take, sir,’ says I, ‘but it’s only in the regard of 
bein’ cast away, and if you plaze, sir,’ says I, 
* Parley voo frongsay ? ’ 

‘“We, munseer,’ says he, mighty sharp. 

“ ‘Then would you lind me the loan of a grid¬ 
iron?’ says I, ‘and you’ll obleege me.’ 

“Well, sir, the ould chap begun to munseer 
me, but the divil a bit of a gridiron he’d gie me, 
and so. I began to think they were all neygars, 
for all their fine manners; and throth my blood 
began to rise, and says I, ‘Bj r my sowl, if it was 
you was in disthress,’ says I, ‘and if it was to 
ould Ireland you kem, it’s not only the gridiron 
they’d give you if you ax’d it, but something to 
put an it too, and a dhrop of dhrink into the bar¬ 
gain, and cead mile faille.' 

“Well, the word cead mille faille seemed to 
sthreck his heart, and the ould chap cocked his 
ear, and so I thought I’d give him another offer, 
and make him sinsible at last; and so says I, 
wanst more, quite slow, that he might undher- 
stand—‘ Parley — voo — frongsay ? munseer.’ 

68 


The Gridiron 


“‘We, munseer,' says he. 

“ ‘Then lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 
‘and bad scran to you.’ 

“Well, bad win’ to the bit of it he’d gi’ me, and 
the ould chap begins bowin’ and scrapin’, and 
said something or other about a long tongs. 

‘“Phoo! the divil sweep yourself and your 
tongs,’ says I, ‘I don’t want a tongs at all at all; 
but can’t you listen to raison?’ says I —‘Parley 
voo frongsay ? ’ 

“‘We, munseer.’ 

“ ‘Then lend me the loan of a gridiron,’ says I, 
‘and howld your prate.’ 

“Well, what would you think but he shook his 
owld noddle, as much as to say he wouldn’t; and 
so says I, ‘Bad cess to the likes o’ that I ever 
seen—throth if you were in my country, it’s not 
that-a-way they’d use you; the curse o’ the crows 
on you, you owld sinner,’ says I, ‘the divil a 
longer I’ll darken your dure.’ 

“ So he seen I was vex’d, and I thought as I was 
turnin’ away, I see him begin to relint, and that 
his conscience throubled him; and says I, turnin’ 
back, ‘Well, I’ll give you one chance more—you 
owld thief—are you a Chrishthan at all at all? 
are you a furriner,’ says I, ‘that all the world 
calls so p’lite? Bad luck to you, do you undher- 
stand your own language ?—Parley voo frongsay ? ’ 
says I. 

“‘We, munseer,’ says he. 

“‘Then, thundher and turf,’ says I, ‘will you 
lind me the loan of a gridiron?’ 

69 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


“Well, sir, the divil resave the bit of it he’d gi’ 
me—and so with that, ‘the curse o’ the hungry- 
on you, you owld negardly villain,’ says I; ‘the 
back o’ my hand and the sowl o’ my foot to you; 
that you may want a gridiron yourself yet,’ says 
I; ‘and wherever I go, high and low, rich and 
poor, shall hear o’ you,’ says I; and with that I 
lift them there, sir, and kem away—and in throth 
it’s often since that I thought that it was remark¬ 
able 


70 


THE CREMONA VIOLIN 


BY 

Ernst Theodor Wolfgang Hoffmann 

Councillor Krespel was one of the 
strangest, oddest men I ever met with in my 

life. When I went to live in H-, for a 

time the whole town was full of talk about him, 
as he happened to be just then in the midst of 
one of the very craziest of his schemes. Krespel 
had the reputation of being both a clever learned 
lawyer and a skilful diplomatist. One of the 
reigning princes of Germany—not, however, one 
of the most powerful—had appealed to him for 
assistance in drawing up a memorial, which he 
was desirous of presenting at the Imperial Court 
with the view of furthering his legitimate claims 
upon a certain strip of territory. The project 
was crowned with the happiest success; and as 
Krespel had once complained that he could never 
find a dwelling sufficiently comfortable to suit 
him, the prince, to reward him for the memorial, 
undertook to defray the cost of building a house 
which Krespel might erect just as he pleased. 
Moreover, the prince was willing to purchase any 
site that he should fancy. This offer, however, 
the Councillor would not accept; he insisted that 
the house should he built in his garden, situated 


7i 



Masterpieces of Fiction 


in a very beautiful neighbourhood outside the 
town-walls. So he bought all kinds of materials, 
and had them carted out. Then he might have 
been seen day after day, attired in his curious 
garments (which he himself caused to be made 
according to certain fixed rules of his own), 
slaking the lime, riddling the sand, packing up 
the bricks and stones in regular heaps, and so on. 
All this he did without once consulting an archi¬ 
tect or thinking about a plan. One finq day, 
however, he went to an experienced builder of 
the town, and requested him to be in his garden 
at daybreak the next morning, with all his 
journeymen and apprentices, and a large body 
of labourers, etc., to build him his house. Natur¬ 
ally, the builder asked for the architect’s plan, 
and was not a little astonished when Krespel 
replied that none was needed, and that things 
would turn out all right in the end, just as he 
wanted them. Next morning, when the builder 
and his men came to the place, they found 
a trench drawn out in the shape of an exact 
square; and Krespel said, “Here’s where you 
must lay the foundation; then carry up the 
walls until I say they are high enough.” “With¬ 
out windows and doors, and without partition- 
walls?” broke in the builder, as if alarmed 
at Krespel’s mad folly. “Do what I tell you, 
my dear sir,” replied the Councillor quite 
calmly; “leave the rest to me; it will be all 
right.” It was only the promise of high pay 
that could induce the builder to proceed with 


72 


The Cremona Violin 


the ridiculous building; but none has ever been 
erected under merrier circumstances. As there 
was an abundant supply of food and drink, the 
workmen never left their work; and, amidst 
their continuous laughter, the four walls were 
run up with incredible quickness, until one day 
Krespel cried, “Stop!” Then the workmen, 
laying down trowel and hammer, came down 
from the scaffoldings, and gathered round 
Krespel in a circle, whilst every laughing face 
was asking, “Well, and what now?” “Make 
way!” cried Krespel; and then running to one 
end of the garden, he strode slowly toward the 
square of brickwork. When he came close to 
the wall, he shook his head in a dissatisfied 
manner, ran to the other end of the garden, 
again strode slowly toward the brickwork 
square, and proceeded to act as before. These 
tactics he pursued several times, until, at length, 
running his sharp nose hard against the wall, he 
cried, “Come here, come here, men! break 
me a door in here! Here’s where I want a door 
made!” He gave the exact dimensions in feet 
and inches, and they did as he bid them. Then 
he stepped inside the structure, and smiled with 
satisfaction as the builder remarked that the 
walls were just the height of a good two-storied 
house. Krespel walked thoughtfully backwards 
and forwards across the space within, the brick¬ 
layers behind him with hammers and picks, and 
wherever he cried, “Make a window here, six 
feet high by four feet broad!” “There a little 


73 


Masterpieces of Fiction 

window, three feet by two!” a hole was made 
in a trice. 

It was at this stage of the proceedings that I 

came to H-; and it was highly amusing to 

see how hundreds of people stood round about 
the garden, and raised a loud shout whenever 
the stones flew out and a new window appeared 
where nobody had for a moment expected it. 
And, in the same manner, Krespel proceeded 
with the buildings and fittings of the rest of 
the house, and with all the work necessary to 
that end; everything had to be done on the spot 
in accordance with the instructions which the 
Councillor gave from time to time. However, 
the absurdity of the whole business, the growing 
conviction that things would, in the end, turn 
out better than might have been expected, 
but, above all, Krespel’s generosity—which 
indeed cost him nothing—kept them all in good- 
humour. Thus were overcome the difficulties 
which necessarily arose out of this eccentric way 
of building, and in a short time there was a com¬ 
pletely finished house, its outside, indeed, pre¬ 
senting a most extraordinary appearance, no two 
windows, etc., being alike, but, on the other 
hand, the interior arrangements suggested a 
peculiar feeling of comfort. All who entered the 
house bore witness to the truth of this; and I, 
too, experienced it myself when I was taken 
in by Krespel after I had become more intimate 
with him. For hitherto I had not exchanged a 
word with this eccentric man; his building had 

74 



The Cremona Violin 


occupied him so much that he had not even once 

been to Professor M-'s to dinner, as he was 

in the habit of doing on Tuesdays. Indeed, in 
reply to a special invitation, he sent word that 
h& should not set foot over the threshold before 
the house-warming of his new building took 
place. All his friends and acquaintances, there¬ 
fore, confidently looked forward to a great 
banquet; but Krespel invited nobody except 
the masters, journeymen, apprentices, and 
labourers who had built the house. He enter¬ 
tained them with the choicest viands; brick¬ 
layers' apprentices devoured partridge pies, 
regardless of consequences; young joiners pol¬ 
ished off roast pheasants with the greatest 
success; whilst hungry labourers helped them¬ 
selves for once to the choicest morsels of truffes 
fricassees. In the evening, their wives and 
daughters came, and there was a great ball. 
After waltzing a short while with the wives of 
the masters, Krespel sat down among the town 
musicians, took a violin in his hand, and directed 
the orchestra until daylight. 

On the Tuesday after this festival, which ex¬ 
hibited Councillor Krespel in the character of a 
friend of the people, I at length saw him appear, 
to my no little joy, at Professor M-'s. Any¬ 

thing more strange and fantastic than Krespel’s 
behaviour it would be impossible to find. He 
was so stiff and awkward in his movements that 
he looked every moment as if he would run up 
against something or do some damage. But he 

75 




Masterpieces of Fiction 


did not; and the lady of the house seemed to be 
well aware that he would not, for she did not 
grow a shade paler when he rushed with heavy 
steps round a table crowded with beautiful cups, 
or when he manoeuvred near a large mirror that 
reached down to the floor, or even when he seized 
a flower-pot of beautifully painted porcelain, and 
swung it round in the air as if desirous of making 
its colours play. Moreover, before dinner, he 
subjected everything in the Professor’s room to a 
most minute examination; he also took down a 
picture from the wall, and hung it up again, stand¬ 
ing on the cushioned chair to do so. At the 
same time, he talked a good deal and vehe¬ 
mently; at one time, his thoughts kept leaping, 
as it were, from one subject to another (this was 
most conspicuous during dinner); at another, he 
was unable to have done with an idea: seizing 
upon it again and again, he gave it all sorts of 
wonderful twists and turns, and couldn’t get 
back into the ordinary track until something 
else took hold of his fancy. Sometimes his 
voice was rough and harsh and screeching, and 
sometimes it was low and drawling and singing; 
but at no time did it harmonise with what he 
was talking about. Music was the subject of 
conversation; the praises of a new composer 
were being sung, when Krespel, smiling, said in 
his low, singing tones, “I wish the devil with 
his pitchfork would hurl that atrocious garbler 
of music millions of fathoms down to the bottom¬ 
less pit of hell! ” Then he burst out passionately 
76 


The Cremona Violin 


and wildly, “She is an angel of heaven, nothing 
but pure, God-given music!—the paragon and 
queen of song!”—and tears stood in his eyes. 
To understand this, we had to go back to a 
celebrated artiste, who had been the subject 
of conversation an hour before. 

Just at this time, a roast hare was on the 
table; I noticed that Krespel carefully removed 
every particle of meat from the bones on his 
plate, and was most particular in his inquiries 
after the hare’s feet; these the Professor’s little 
five-year-old daughter now brought to him with a 
very pretty smile. Besides, the children had 
cast many friendly glances towards Krespel 
during dinner; now they rose and drew nearer 
to him, but not without signs of timorous awe. 
What’s the meaning of that? thought I to my¬ 
self. Dessert was brought in; then the Councillor 
took a little box from his pocket, in which he 
had a miniature lathe of steel. This he im¬ 
mediately screwed fast to the table, and turning 
the bones with incredible skill and rapidity, he 
made all sorts of little fancy boxes and balls, 
which the children received with cries of delight. 
Just as we were rising from table, the Professor’s 
niece asked, “And what is our Antonia doing?” 
Krespel’s face was like that of one who has 
bitten of a sour orange and wants to look as if 
it were a sweet one; but this expression soon 
changed into the likeness of a hideous mask, 
whilst he laughed behind it with downright, 
bitter, fierce, and, as it seemed to me, satanic 


77 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


scorn. “Our Antonia? our dear Antonia?” he 
asked in his drawling, disagreeable singing way. 
The Professor hastened to intervene; in the 
reproving glance which he gave his niece, I 
read that she had touched a point likely to stir 
up unpleasant memories in Krespel’s heart. 
“How are you getting on with your violins?” 
interposed the Professor in a jovial manner, 
taking the Councillor by both hands. Then 
Krespel’s countenance cleared up, and, with a 
firm voice, he replied: “Capitally, Professor; 
you recollect my telling you of the lucky chance 
which threw that splendid Amati into my hands. 
Well, I’ve cut it open only to-day—not before 
to-day. I hope Antonia has carefully taken 
the rest of it to pieces.” “Antonia is a good 
child,” remarked the Professor. “Yes, indeed, 
that she is,” cried the Councillor, whisking 
himself round; then, seizing his hat and stick, 
he hastily rushed out of the room. I saw in the 
mirror how that tears were standing in his eyes. 

As soon as the Councillor was gone, I at once 
urged the Professor to explain to me what 
Krespel had to do with violins, and particularly 
with Antonia. “Well,” replied the Professor, 
“not only is the Councillor a remarkably eccentric 
fellow altogether, but he practises violin-making 
in his own crack-brained way.” “Violin¬ 
making!” I exclaimed, perfectly astonished. 
“Yes,” continued the Professor, “according to 
the judgment of men who understand the 
thing, Krespel makes the very best violins that 
78 


The Cremona Violin 


can be found nowadays; formerly, he would 
frequently let other people play on those in 
which he had been especially successful, but 
that’s been all over and done with now for a 
long time. As soon as he has finished a violin, 
he plays on it himself for one or two hours, with 
very remarkable power and with the most 
exquisite expression; then he hangs it up beside 
the rest, and never touches it again or suffers 
anybody else to touch it. If a violin by any of 
the eminent old masters is hunted up anywhere, 
the Councillor buys it immediately, no matter 
what the price put upon it. But he plays it as 
he does his own violins—only once; then he 
takes it to pieces in order to examine closely its ' 
inner structure, and should he fancy he hasn’t 
found exactly what he sought for, he, in a pet, 
throws the pieces into a big chest, which is 
already full of the remains of broken violins.” 
“But who and what is Antonia?” I inquired 
hastily and impetuously. “Well, now, that,” 
continued the Professor—“that is a thing which 
might very well make me conceive an uncon¬ 
querable aversion to the Councillor, were I not 
convinced that there is some peculiar secret 
behind it, for he is such a good-natured fellow 
at bottom as to be sometimes guilty of weakness. 

When we came to H-several years ago, he 

led the life of an anchorite, along with an old 

housekeeper, in - Street. Soon, by his 

oddities, he excited the curiosity of his neigh¬ 
bours ; and as soon as he became aware of this, 

79 




Masterpieces of Fiction 


he sought and made acquaintances. Not only 
in my house, but everywhere, we became so 
accustomed to him that he grew to be indis¬ 
pensable. In spite of his rude exterior, even 
the children liked him, without ever proving a 
nui«ance to him; for, notwithstanding all their 
friendly passages together, they always retained 
a certain timorous awe of him, which secured 
him against all over-familiarity. You have to¬ 
day had an example of the way in which he wins 
their hearts by his ready skill in various things. 
We all at first took him for a crusty old bachelor, 
and he never contradicted us. After he had 
been living here some time, he went away, 
nobody knew where, and returned at the end of 
some months. The evening following his return 
his windows were lit up to an unusual extent! 
This alone was sufficient to arouse his neigh¬ 
bours’ attention, and they soon heard the sur¬ 
passingly beautiful voice of a woman singing to 
the accompaniment of a piano. Then the music 
of a violin was heard chiming in and entering 
upon a keen, ardent contest with the voice. 
They knew at once that the player was the 
Councillor. I myself mixed in the large crowd 
that had gathered in front of his house to listen 
to this extraordinary concert; and I must confess 
that, besides this voice and the peculiar, deep, 
soul-stirring impression which the execution 
made upon me, the singing of the most celebrated 
artistes whom I had ever heard seemed to me 
feeble and void of expression. Until then, I 
8q 


The Cremona Violin 


had had no conception of such long-sustained 
notes, of such nightingale thrills, of such un¬ 
dulations of musical sound, of such swelling up 
to the strength of organ-notes, of such dying 
away to the faintest whisper. There was not 
one whom the sweet witchery did not enthral; 
and, when the singer ceased, nothing but soft 
sighs broke the impressive silence. Somewhere 
about midnight the Councillor was heard talking 
violently, and another male voice seemed, to 
judge from the tones, to be reproaching him, 
whilst at intervals the broken words of a 
sobbing girl could be detected. The Councillor 
continued to shout with increasing violence, 
until he fell into that drawling, singing way 
that you know. He was interrupted by a loud 
scream from the girl—and then all was as still 
as death. Suddenly, a loud racket was heard 
on the stairs; a young man rushed out sobbing, 
threw himself into a post-chaise which stood 
below, and drove rapidly away. The next 
day the Councillor was very cheerful, and nobody 
had the courage to question him about the 
events of the previous night. But, on inquiring 
of the housekeeper, we gathered that the Coun¬ 
cillor had brought home with him an extraor¬ 
dinarily pretty young lady whom he called 
Antonia, and she it was who had sung so beau¬ 
tifully. A young man also had come along 
with them; he had treated Antonia very tenderly, 
and must evidently have been her betrothed. 
But he, since the Councillor peremptorily insisted 
81 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


on it, had had to go away again in a hurry. 
What the relations between Antonia and the 
Councillor are has remained until now a secret, 
but this much is certain, that he tyrannises over 
the poor girl in the most hateful fashion. He 
watches her as Doctor Bartholo watches his 
ward in the “Barber of Seville”; she hardly 
dare show herself at the window; and if, yielding 
now and again to her earnest entreaties, he 
takes her into society, he follows her with 
Argus’ eyes, and will on no account suffer a 
musical note to be sounded, far less let Antonia 
sing—indeed, she is not permitted to sing in 
his own house. Antonia’s singing on that 
memorable night has, therefore, come to be 
regarded by the townspeople in the light of a 
tradition of some marvellous wonder that suffices 
to stir the heart and the fancy; and even those 
who did not hear it often exclaim, whenever 
any other singer attempts to display her powers 
in the place, ‘What sort of a wretched squeaking 
do you call that? Nobody but Antonia knows 
how to sing.’” 

Having a singular weakness for such like 
fantastic histories, I found it necessary, as may 
easily be imagined, to make Antonia’s acquaint¬ 
ance. I myself had often enough heard the 
popular sayings about her singing, but had never 
imagined that that exquisite artiste was living in 
the place, held a captive in the bonds of this 
eccentric Krespel like the victim of a tyrannous 
sorcerer. Naturally enough, in my dreams on 
82 


The Cremona Violin 


the following night I heard Antonia’s marvellous 
voice, and, as she besought me in the most 
touching manner in a glorious adagio movement 
(very ridiculously, it seemed to me that I had 
composed it myself) to save her, I soon re¬ 
solved, like a second Astolpho, to penetrate 
into Krespel’s house, as if into another Alcina’s 
magic castle, and deliver the queen of song from 
her ignominious fetters. 

It all came about in a different way from what 
I had expected: I had seen the Councillor 
scarcely more than two or three times, and 
eagerly discussed with him the best method of 
constructing violins, when he invited me to 
call and see him. I did so; and he showed me 
his treasures of violins. There were fully 
thirty of them hanging up in a closet; one among 
them bore conspicuously all the marks of great 
antiquity (a carved lion’s head, etc.), and, hung 
up higher than the rest, and surmounted by a 
crown of flowers, it seemed to exercise a queenly 
supremacy over them. “This violin,” said 
Krespel, on my making some inquiry relative 
to it—“this violin is a very remarkable and 
curious specimen of the work of some unknown 
master, probably of Tartini’s age. I am 
perfectly convinced that there is something 
especially exceptional in its inner construction, 
and that, if I took it to pieces, a secret would 
be revealed to me which I have long been seek¬ 
ing to discover, but—laugh at me if you like— 
this senseless thing which only gives signs of 
83 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


life and sound as I make it, often speaks to 
me in a strange way of itself. The first time 
I played upon it, I somehow fancied that I was 
only the magnetiser who has the power of 
moving his subject to reveal, of his own accord 
in words, the visions of his inner nature. Don’t 
go away with the belief that I am such a fool as 
to attach even the slightest importance to such 
fantastic notions, and yet it’s certainly strange 
that I could never prevail upon myself to cut 
open that dumb lifeless thing there. I am 
very pleased now that I have not cut it open, 
for, since Antonia has been with me, I some¬ 
times play to her upon this violin. For Antonia 
is fond of it—very fond of it.” As the Councillor 
uttered these words with visible signs of emotion, 
I felt encouraged to hazard the question, “Will 
you not play it for me, Councillor?” Krespel 
made a wry face, and falling into his drawling, 
singing way, said, ‘‘No, my good sir!” and that 
was an end of the matter. Then I had to look 
at all sorts of rare curiosities, the greater part 
of them childish trifles; at last, thrusting his 
arm into a chest, he brought out a folded piece 
of paper, which he pressed into my hand, adding 
solemnly, “You are a lover of art; take this 
present as a priceless memento, which you must 
value at all times above everything else.” 
Therewith he took me by the shoulders, and 
gently pushed me toward the door, embracing 
me on the threshold. That is to say, I was in 
a symbolical manner virtually kicked out of 
84 


The Cremona Violin 


doors. Unfolding the paper, I found a piece 
of a first string of a violin, about an eighth of 
an inch in length, with the words, “A piece of 
the treble string with which the deceased 
Stamitz strung his violin for the last concert at 
which he ever played.” 

This summary dismissal at mention of An¬ 
tonia’s name led me to infer that I should never 
see her; but I was mistaken, for, on my second 
visit to the Councillor’s, I found her in his room, 
assisting him to put a violin together. At first 
Antonia did not make a strong impression; but 
soon I found it impossible to tear myself away 
from her blue eyes, her sweet rosy lips, her 
uncommonly graceful, lovely form. She was 
very pale; but a shrewd remark or a merry sally 
would call up a winning smile on her face and 
suffuse her cheeks with a deep burning flush, 
which, however, soon faded away to a faint rosy 
glow. My conversation with her was quite 
unconstrained, and yet I saw nothing whatever 
of the Argus-like watchings on Krespel’s part 
that the Professor had imputed to him; on the 
contrary, his behaviour moved along the cus¬ 
tomary lines; nay, he even seemed to approve 
of my conversing with Antonia. So I often 
stepped in to see the Councillor; and, as we 
became accustomed to each other's society, a 
singular, homelike feeling, taking possession 
of our little circle of three, filled our hearts with 
inward happiness. I still continued to derive ex¬ 
quisite enjoyment from the Councillor’s strange 
85 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


crochets and oddities; but it was of course, 
Antonia’s irresistible charms alone which at¬ 
tracted me, and led me to put up with a good 
deal which I should otherwise, in the frame of 
mind in which I then was, have impatiently 
shunned. For it only too often happened that, 
in the Councillor’s characteristic extravagance, 
there was mingled much that was dull and 
tiresome; and it was in a special degree irritating 
to me that, as often as I turned the conversation 
upon music, and particularly upon singing, he 
was sure to interrupt me, with that sardonic 
smile upon his face and those repulsive singing 
tones of his, by some remark of a quite opposite 
tendency, very often of a commonplace character. 
From the great distress which at such times 
Antonia’s glances betrayed, I perceived that he 
did it only to deprive me of a pretext for calling 
upon her for a song. But I didn’t relinquish my 
design. The hindrances which the Councillor 
threw in my way only strengthened my resolu¬ 
tion to overcome them; I must hear Antonia 
sing if I were not to pine away in reveries and 
dim aspirations for want of hearing her. 

#> One evening, Krespel was in an uncommonly 
good humour; he had been taking an old Cre¬ 
mona violin to pieces, and had discovered that 
the sound-post was fixed half a line more ob¬ 
liquely than usual—an important discovery!— 
one of incalculable advantage in the practical 
work of making violins! I succeeded in setting 
him off at full speed on his hobby of the true 
86 


The Cremona Violin 


art of violin-playing. Mention of the way in 
which the old masters picked up their dexterity 
in execution from really great singers (which was 
what Krespel happened just then to be ex¬ 
patiating upon) naturally paved the way for the 
remark that now the practice was the exact 
opposite of this—the vocal score erroneously 
following the affected and abrupt transitions 
and rapid scaling of the instrumentalists. 
“What is more nonsensical,” I cried, leaping 
from my chair, running to the piano, and opening 
it quickly—“what is more nonsensical than 
such an execrable style as this, which, far 
from being music, is much more like the noise of 
peas rolling across the floor?” At the same 
time, I sang several of the modern fermatas, which 
rush up and down and hum like a well-spun 
peg-top, striking a few villainous chords by 
way of accompaniment. Krespel laughed out¬ 
rageously, and screamed, “Ha! ha! methinks 
I hear our German-Italians, or our Italian- 
Germans, struggling with an aria from Pucitta, 
or Portogallo, or some other Maestro di capella , 
or rather schiavo d'un primo uomo .” Now, 
thought I, now’s the time; so, turning to Antonia, 
I remarked, “Antonia knows nothing of such 
singing as that, I believe?” At the same time 
I stuck up one of old Leonardo Leo’s beautiful 
soul-stirring songs. Then Antonia’s cheeks 
glowed; heavenly radiance sparkled in her eyes, 
which grew full of reawakened inspiration; she 
hastened to the piano; she opened her lips; but, 

*7 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


at that very moment, Krespel pushed her away, 
grasped me by the shoulders, and, with a 
shriek that rose up to a tenor pitch, cried, 
“My son—my son—my son!” And then he 
immediately went on, singing very softly and 
grasping my hand with a bow that was the pink 
of politeness, “In very truth, my esteemed and 
honourable student-friend, in very truth, it 
would be a violation of the codes of social 
intercourse, as well as of all good manners, were 
I to express aloud, and in a stirring way, my 
wish that here, on this very spot, the devil from 
hell would softly break your neck with his 
burning claws, and so, in a sense, make short 
work of you; but, setting that aside, you must 
acknowledge, my dearest friend, that it is 
rapidly growing dark, and there are no lamps 
burning to-night, so that, even though I did not 
kick you down-stairs at once, your darling limbs 
might still run a risk of suffering damage. Go 
home, by all means; and cherish a kind remem¬ 
brance of your faithful friend, in case it should 
happen that you never—pray, understand me— 
in case you should never see him in his own 
house again.” Therewith he embraced me, 
and, still keeping fast hold of me, turned with 
me slowly toward the door, so that I could not 
get another single look at Antonia. Of course it 
is plain enough that, in my position, I couldn’t 
thrash the Councillor, though that is what he 
really deserved. The Professor enjoyed a good 
laugh at my expense, and assured me that I 
88 


The Cremona Violin 


had ruined for ever all hopes of retaining the 
Councillor’s friendship. Antonia was too dear 
to me, I might say too holy, for me to go and 
play the part of the languishing lover, and 
stand gazing up at her window, or to fill the 
role of the lovesick adventurer. Completely 

upset, I went away from H-; but, as is usual 

in such cases, the brilliant colours of the picture 
of my fancy faded, and the recollection of 
Antonia, as well as of Antonia’s singing (which 
I had never heard), often fell upon my heart 
like a soft, faint trembling light, comforting me. 

Two years afterward, I received an appoint¬ 
ment in B-, and set out on a journey to the 

south of Germany. The towers of H- rose 

before me in the red, vaporous glow of the even¬ 
ing; the nearer I came, the more was I oppressed 
by an indescribable feeling of the most agonising 
distress; it lay upon me like a heavy burden; 
I could not breathe; I was obliged to get out of 
my carriage into the open air. But my anguish 
continued to increase until it became actual 
physical pain. Soon I seemed to hear the 
strains of a solemn chorale floating in the air; 
the sounds continued to grow more distinct; I 
realised the fact that they were men’s voices 
chanting a church chorale. “What’s that? 
what’s that?” I cried, a burning stab darting 
as it were through my breast. ‘‘ Don’t you see ? ” 
replied the coachman, who was driving along 
beside me—“why, don’t you see? They’re 
burying somebody up yonder in yon church- 
89 




Masterpieces of Fiction 


yard.” And indeed we were near the church¬ 
yard; I saw a circle of men clothed in black 
standing round a grave which was on the point 
of being closed. Tears started to my eyes; 1 
somehow fancied they were burying there all 
the joy and all the happiness of life. Moving 
on rapidly down the hill, I was no longer able 
to see into the churchyard; the chorale came to 
an end, and I perceived, not far distant from the 
gate, some of the mourners returning from the 
funeral. The Professor, with his niece on his 
arm, both in deep mourning, went close past me 
without noticing me. The young lady had her 
handkerchief pressed close to her eyes, and was 
weeping bitterly. In the frame of mind in 
which I then was, I could not possibly go into 
the town, so I sent on my servant with the 
carriage to the hotel where I usually put up, 
whilst I took a turn in the familiar neighbour¬ 
hood, to get rid of a mood that was possibly due 
only to physical causes, such as heating on the 
journey, or the like. On arriving at a well- 
known avenue which leads to a pleasure resort, 
I came upon a most extraordinary spectacle. 
Councillor Krespel was being conducted by 
two mourners, from whom he appeared to be 
endeavouring to make his escape by all sorts 
of strange twists and turns. As usual, he was 
dressed in his own curious, home-made gray 
coat; but from his little cocked-hat, which he 
wore perched over one ear in military fashion, a 
long, narrow ribbon of. black crape fluttered 


90 


The Cremona Violin 


backwards and forwards in the wind. Around 
his waist he had buckled a black sword-belt; 
but, instead of a sword, he had stuck a long 
fiddle-bow into it. A creepy shudder ran 
through my limbs: “He’s insane,” thought I, 
as I slowly followed them. The Councillor’s 
companions led him as far as his house, where 
he embraced them, laughing loudly. They left 
him; and then his glance fell upon me, for I 
now stood near him. He stared at me fixedly 
for some time; then he cried in a hollow voice, 
“Welcome, my student friend! you also under¬ 
stand it!” Thereupon, he took me by the arm, 
and pulled me into the house, up the steps, into 
the room where the violins hung. They were 
all draped in black crape ; the violin of the old 
master was missing; in its place was a cypress 
wreath. I knew what had happened. “An¬ 
tonia! Antonia!” I cried, in inconsolable grief. 
The Councillor, with his arms crossed on his 
breast, stood beside me as if turned into stone. 
I pointed to the cypress wreath. “When she 
died,” said he, in a very hoarse, solemn voice— 
“when she died, the sound-post of that violin 
broke into pieces with a ringing crack, and the 
sound-board was split from end to end. The 
faithful instrument could only live with her and 
in her; it lies beside her in the coffin, it has been 
buried with her.” Deeply agitated, I sank down 
upon a chair, whilst the Councillor began to 
sing a gay song in a husky voice; it was truly 
horrible to see him hopping about on one foot, 


9i 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


and the crape strings (he still had his hat on) 
flying about the room and up to the violins 
hanging on the walls. Indeed, I could not 
repress a loud cry that rose to my lips when, on 
the Councillor’s making an abrupt turn, the 
crape came all over me; I fancied he wanted to 
envelop me in it and drag me down into the 
horrible dark depths of insanity. Suddenly he 
stood still, and addressed me in his singing way: 
“My son! my son! why do you call out? Have 
you espied the angel of death? That always 
precedes the ceremony.” Stepping into the 
middle of the room, he took the violin-bow out 
of his sword-belt, and, holding it over his head 
with both hands, broke it into a thousand 
pieces. Then, with a loud laugh, he cried: 
“Now you imagine my sentence is pronounced, 
don’t you, my son? but it’s nothing of the kind 
—not at all! not at all! Now I’m free—free— 
free—hurrah! I’m free! Now I shall make no 
more violins—no more violins—hurrah! no 
more violins! ” This he sang to a horrible mirth¬ 
ful tune, again spinning round on one foot. 
Perfectly aghast, I was making the best of my 
way to the door, when he held me fast, saying 
quite calmly, “Stay, my student friend; pray 
don’t think, from this outbreak of grief which is 
torturing me as if with the agonies of death, 
that I am insane; I do it only because, a short 
time ago, I made myself a dressing-gown in 
which I wanted to look like Fate or like God!” 
The Councillor then went on with a medley of 


92 


The Cremona Violin 


silly and awful rubbish, until he fell down 
utterly exhausted; I called up the old house¬ 
keeper, and was very pleased to find myself in 
the open air again. 

I never doubted for a moment that Krespel 
had become insane; the Professor, however, as¬ 
serted the contrary. “There are men,” he re¬ 
marked, “from whom nature or a special destiny 
has taken away the cover behind which the mad 
folly of the rest of us runs its course unobserved. 
They are like thin-skinned insects, which, as we 
watch the restless play of their muscles, seem 
to be misshapen, while, nevertheless, everything 
soon comes back into its proper form again. All 
that with us remains thought passes over with 
Krespel into action. That bitter scorn which 
the spirit that is wrapped up in the doings and 
dealings of the earth often has at hand, Krespel 
gives vent to in outrageous gestures and agile 
caprioles. But these are his lightning conductors. 
What comes up out of the earth he gives again 
to the earth, but what is divine, that he keeps; 
and so I believe that his inner consciousness, in 
spite of the apparent madness which springs 
from it to the surface, is as right as a trivet. To 
be sure, Antonia’s sudden death grieves him 
sore, but I warrant that to-morrow will see him 
going along in his old jog-trot way as usual.” 
And the Professor’s prediction was almost liter¬ 
ally filled. Next day the Councillor appeared 
to be just as he formerly was, only he averred 
that he would never make another violin, nor 


93 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


yet ever play on another. And, as I learned 
later, he kept his word. 

Hints which the Professor let fall confirmed 
my own private conviction that the so carefully 
guarded secret of the Councillor’s relations to 
Antonia—nay, even her death—was a crime 
which must weigh heavily upon him, a crime that 
could not be atoned for. I determined that I 

would not leave H-without taxing him with 

the offence which I conceived him to be guilty 
of; I determined to shake his heart down to its 
very roots, and so compel him to make open 
confession of the terrible deed. The more I 
reflected upon the matter, the clearer it grew in 
my own mind that Krespel must be a villain, 
and in the same proportion did my intended 
reproach, which assumed of itself the form of a 
real rhetorical masterpiece, wax more fiery and 
more impressive. Thus equipped and mightily 
incensed, I hurried to his house. I found him 
with a calm, smiling countenance making 
playthings. “How can peace,” I burst out— 
“how can peace find lodgment even for a single 
moment in your breast, so long as the memory 
of your horrible deed preys like a serpent upon 
you?” He gazed at me in amazement, and 
laid his chisel aside. “What do you mean, my 
dear sir?” he asked; “pray take a seat.” But, 
my indignation chafing me more and more, 
I went on to accuse him directly of having 
murdered Antonia, and to threaten him with 
the vengeance of the Eternal. 


94 



The Cremona Violin 


Further, as a newly full-fledged lawyer, full of 
my profession, I went so far as to give him to 
understand that I should leave no stone un¬ 
turned to get a clue to the matter, and so deliver 
him here in this world into the hands of an 
earthly judge. I must confess that I was con¬ 
siderably disconcerted when, at the conclusion 
of my violent and pompous harangue, the 
Councillor, without answering so much as a 
single word, calmly fixed his eyes upon me as 
if expecting me to go on again. And this I did, 
indeed, attempt to do, but it sounded so ill- 
founded, and so stupid as well, that I soon grew 
silent again. Krespel gloated over my em¬ 
barrassment, whilst a malicious ironical smile 
flitted across his face. Then he grew very 
grave, and addressed me in solemn tones. 
“Young man, no doubt you think I am foolish, 
insane; that I can pardon you, since we are both 
confined in the same mad-house; and you blame 
me for deluding myself with the idea that I am 
God the Father only because you imagine 
yourself to be God the Son. But how do you 
dare to insinuate yourself into the secrets, 
and to lay bare the hidden motives of a life 
that i« strange to you and that must continue 
so? She has gone, and the mystery is solved.” 
He ceased speaking, rose, and traversed the 
room backwards and forwards several times. I 
ventured to ask for an explanation ; he fixed his 
eyes upon me, grasped me by the hand, and led 
me to the window, which he threw wide open. 

95 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Propping himself upon his arms, he leaned out, 
and, looking down into the garden, told me the 
history of his life. When he finished, I left him, 
touched and ashamed. 

In a few words, his relations with Antonia 
arose in the following way. Twenty years before, 
the Councillor had been led into Italy by his 
favourite engrossing passion of hunting up and 
buying the best violins of the old masters. At 
that time, he had not yet begun to make them 
himself, and so, of course, he had not begun to 
take to pieces those which he bought. In 
Venice he heard the celebrated singer Angela 

-i, who at that time was playing with splendid 

success as prima donna at St. Benedict’s Theatre. 
His enthusiasm was awakened, not only by her 
art—which Signora Angela had indeed brought 
to a high pitch of perfection—but by her angelic 
beauty as well. He sought her acquaintance; 
and, in spite of all his rugged manners, he 
succeeded in winning her heart, principally 
through his bold and yet at the same time 
masterly violin-playing. Close intimacy led 
in a few weeks to marriage, which, however, was 
kept a secret, because Angela was unwilling to 
sever her connection with the theatre: neither 
did she wish to part with her professional name, 
that by which she was celebrated, nor to add 
to it the cacophonous “Krespel.” With the 
most extravagant irony he described to me what 
a strange life of worry and torture Angela led 
him as soon as she became his wife. Krespel 
96 



The Cremona Violin 


was of opinion that more capriciousness and 
waywardness were concentrated in Angela’s little 
person than in all the rest of the prime donne in 
the world put together. If he now and again 
presumed to stand up in his own defence, she let 
loose a whole army of abbots, musical composers, 
and students upon him, who, ignorant of his true 
connection with Angela, soundly rated him as a 
most intolerable, ungallant lover for not submit¬ 
ting to all the Signora’s caprices. It was just 
after one of these stormy scenes that Krespel 
fled to Angela’s country seat to try to forget, in 
playing fantasias on his Cremona violin, the 
annoyances of the day. But he had not been 
there long before the Signora, who had followed 
hard after him, stepped into the room. She was 
in an affectionate humour; she embraced her 
husband, overwhelmed him with sweet and lan¬ 
guishing glances, and rested her pretty head 
on his shoulder. But Krespel, carried away 
into the world of music, continued to play on 
until the walls echoed again; thus he chanced 
to touch the Signora somewhat ungently with his 
arm and the fiddle-bow. She leaped back full 
of fury, shrieking that he was a “German brute,” 
snatched the violin from his hands, and dashed 
it on the marble table into a thousand pieces. 
Krespel stood like a statue of stone before her; 
but then, as if awakening out of a dream, he 
seized her with the strength of a giant, and 
threw her out of the window of her own house; 
and, without troubling himself about anything 

97 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


more, fled back to Venice—to Germany. It was 
not, however, until some time had elapsed that 
he had a clear recollection of what he had done; 
although he knew that the window was scarcely 
five feet from the ground, and although he was 
fully cognisant of the necessity, under the above- 
mentioned circumstances, of throwing the Signora 
out of the window, he yet felt troubled by a 
sense of painful uneasiness, and the more so 
since she had imparted to him, in no ambiguous 
terms, an interesting secret as to her condition. 
He hardly dared to make inquiries; and he was 
not a little surprised about eight months after¬ 
ward at receiving a tender letter from his 
beloved wife, in which she made not the slightest 
allusion to what had taken place in her country 
house, only adding to the intelligence that she 
had been safely delivered of a sweet little 
daughter the heartfelt prayer that her dear 
husband and now a happy father would come 
at once to Venice. That, howeyqj', Krespel did 
not do; rather he appealed u.to a confidential 
friend for a more circumstantial account of 
the details, and learned that the Signora had 
alighted upon the soft grass as lightly as a bird, 
and that the sole consequences of the fall or 
shock had been psychic. That is to say, after 
Krespel’s heroic deed, she had become completely 
altered; she never showed a trace of caprice, of 
her former freaks, or of her teasing habits; and 
the composer who wrote for the next carnival 
was the happiest fellow under the sun, since the 
98 


The Cremona Violin 


Signora was willing to sing his music without the 
scores and hundreds of changes which she at 
other times had insisted upon. “To be sure,” 
added his friend, “there was every reason for 
preserving the secret of Angela’s cure, else every 
day would see lady singers flying through win¬ 
dows.” The Councillor was not a little excited 
at this news; he engaged horses; he took his 
seat in the carriage. “Stop! ” he cried suddenly. 
“Why, there’s not a shadow of doubt,” he mur¬ 
mured to himself, “that as soon as Angela sets 
eyes upon me again, the evil spirit will recover his 
power and once more take possession of her. 
And, since I have already thrown her out of the 
window, what could I do if a similar case were to 
occur again? What would there be left for me 
to do?” He got out of the carriage, and wrote 
an affectionate letter to his wife, making graceful 
allusions to her tenderness in especially dwelling 
upon the fact that his tiny daughter had, like him, 
a little mole behind the ear, and—remained in 
Germany. Now ensued an active correspondence 
between them. Assurances of unchanged affec¬ 
tion—invitations—laments over the absence of 
the beloved one—thwarted wishes—hopes, etc. 
—flew backwards and forwards from Venice 

to H-from H-to Venice. At length 

Angela came to Germany, and, as is well known, 
sang with brilliant success as prima donna at the 

great theatre in F-. Despite the fact that she 

was no longer young, she won all hearts by the 
irresistible charm of her wonderfully splendid 


99 





Masterpieces of Fiction 


singing. At that time, she had not lost her 
voice in the least degree. Meanwhile, Antonia 
had been growing up; and her mother never 
tired of writing to tell her father how it was that 
a singer of the first rank was developing in her. 

Krespel’s friends in F- also confirmed this 

intelligence, and urged him to come for once to 

F-to see and admire this uncommon sight of 

two such glorious singers. They had not the 
slightest suspicion of the close relations in which 
Krespel stood to the pair. Willingly would he 
have seen with his own eyes the daughter who 
occupied so large a place in his heart, and who, 
moreover, often appeared to him in his dreams; 
but, as often as he thought upon his wife, he felt 
very uncomfortable, and so he remained at home 
among his broken violins. 

There was a certain promising young composer, 

B-of F-, who was found to have suddenly 

disappeared, nobody knew where. This young 
man fell so deeply in love with Antonia that, as 
she returned his love, he earnestly besought her 
mother to consent to an immediate union, sanc¬ 
tified, as it would further be, by art. Angela had 
nothing to urge against his suit; and the Coun¬ 
cillor the more readily gave consent that the 
young composer’s productions had found favour 
before his rigorous critical judgment. Krespel 
was expecting to hear of the consummation of 
the marriage, when he received, instead, a black- 
sealed envelope addressed in a strange hand. 
Doctor R-conveyed to the Councillor the sad 


ioo 






The Cremona Violin 


intelligence that Angela had fallen seriously ill 
in consequence of a cold caught at the theatre, 
and that, during the night immediately preceding 
what was to have been Antonia’s wedding-day, 
she had died. To him, the Doctor, Angela had 
disclosed the fact that she was Krespel’s wife, 
and that Antonia was his daughter; he, Krespel, 
had better hasten, therefore, to take charge of the 
orphan. Notwithstanding that the Councillor 
was a good deal upset by this news of Angela’s 
death, he soon began to feel that an antipathetic, 
disturbing influence had departed out of his life 
and that now, for the first time, he could begin 
to breathe freely. The very same day he set out 
for F-. You could not credit how heartrend¬ 

ing was the Councillor’s description of the mo¬ 
ment when he first saw Antonia. Even in the 
fantastic oddities of his expression there was 
such a marvellous power of description that I 
am unable to give even so much as a faint 
indication of it. Antonia inherited all her 
mother’s amiability and all her mother s charms, 
but not the repellent reverse of the medal. 
There was no chronic moral ulcer which might 
break out from time to time. Antonia’s 
betrothed put in an appearance, whilst Antonia 
herself, fathoming with happy instinct the 
deeper-lying character of her wonderful father, 
sang one of old Padre Martini’s motets which 
she knew Krespel, in the heyday of his courtship, 
had never grown tired of hearing her mother 
sing. The tears ran in streams down Krespel’s 


IQI 



Masterpieces of Fiction 


cheeks; even Angela he had never heard sing 
like that. Antonia’s voice was of a very re¬ 
markable and altogether peculiar timbre: at 
one time it was like the sighing of an Aeolian 
harp; at another, like the warbled gush of 
the nightingale. It seemed as if there was not 
room for such notes in the human breast. 
Antonia, blushing with joy and happiness, sang 

on and on—all her most beautiful songs, B- 

playing between whiles as only enthusiasm that 
is intoxicated with delight can play. Krespel 
was at first transported with rapture; then he 
grew thoughtful—still—absorbed in reflection. 
At length he leaped to his feet, pressed Antonia 
to his heart, and begged her in a low husky 
voice, “Sing no more if you love me—my heart 
is bursting—I fear—I fear—don’t sing again.” 

“No!” remarked the Councillor next day to 

Doctor R-, “when, as she sang, her blushes 

gathered into two dark red spots on her pale 
cheeks, I knew it had nothing to do with your 
nonsensical family likenesses—I knew it was 
what I dreaded.” The Doctor, whose counte¬ 
nance had shown signs of deep distress from 
the very beginning of the conversation, replied: 
“Whether it arises from a too early taxing of 
her powers of song, or whether the fault is 
Nature’s—enough; Antonia labours under an 
organic failure in the chest while it is from that, 
too, that her voice derives its wonderful power 
and its singular timbre, which I might almost 
say transcend the limits of human capabilities 


102 




The Cremona Violin 


of song. But it bears the announcement of 
her early death; for, if she continues to sing, I 
wouldn’t give her at the most more than six 
months longer to live." Krespel’s heart was 
lacerated as if by the stabs of hundreds of 
stinging knives. It was as if his life had been 
for the first time overshadowed by a beautiful 
tree full of the most magnificent blossoms, and 
now it was to be sawn to pieces at the roots, 
so that it could not grow green and blossom 
any more. His resolution was taken. He told 
Antonia all; he put the alternatives before her— 
whether she would follow her betrothed, and 
yield to his and the world’s seductions, but with 
the certainty of dying early, or whether she 
would spread round her father in his old days 
that joy and peace which hitherto had been un¬ 
known to him, and so secure a long life. She 
threw herself sobbing into his arms, and he, 
knowing the heartrending trial that was before 
her, did not press for a more explicit declaration. 
He talked the matter over with her betrothed; 
but, notwithstanding that the latter averred that 
no note should ever cross Antonia’s lips, the 
Councillor was only too well aware that even 

B-could not resist the temptation of hearing 

her sing, at any rate arias of his own composition. 
And the world, the musical public, even though 
acquainted with the nature of the singer’s afflic¬ 
tion, would certainly not relinquish its claims to 
hear her; for, in cases where pleasure is concerned, 
people of this class are very selfish and cruel. 

103 



Masterpieces of Fiction 


The Councillor disappeared from F- along 

with Antonia, and came to H-. B-was 

in despair when he learned that they had gone. 
He set out on their track, overtook them, and 

arrived at H-at the same time that they did. 

“Let me see him only once, and then die!” en¬ 
treated Antonia. “Die! die!” cried Krespel, 
wild with anger, an icy shudder running through 
him. His daughter, the only creature in the 
wide world who had awakened in him the springs 
of unknown joy, who alone had reconciled him 
to life, tore herself away from his heart, and he 
—he suffered the terrible trial to take place. 

B- sat down to the piano; Antonia sang; 

Krespel fiddled away merrily, until the two red 
spots showed themselves on Antonia’s cheeks. 

Then he bade her stop; and as B-was taking 

leave of his betrothed, she suddenly fell to the 
floor with a loud scream. “I thought,” con¬ 
tinued Krespel in his narration—“I thought that 
she was, as I had anticipated, really dead; but, as 
I had prepared myself for the worst, my calmness 
did not leave me, nor my self-command desert 

me. I grasped B-, who stood like a silly 

sheep in his dismay, by the shoulders, and said 
(here the Councillor fell into his singing tone), 
‘Now that you, my estimable pianoforte-player, 
have, as you wished and desired, really murdered 
your betrothed, you may quietly take your 
departure; at least have the goodness to make 
yourself scarce before I run my bright hanger 
through your heart. My daughter, who, as 


104 








The Cremona Violin 


you see, is rather pale, could very well do with 
some colour from your precious blood. Make 
haste and run, for I might also hurl a nimble 
knife or two after you.’ I must, I suppose, 
have looked rather formidable as I uttered these 

words, for, with a cry of the greatest terror, B- 

tore himself loose from my grasp, rushed out 
of the room, and down the steps.” Directly 

after B-was gone, when the Councillor tried 

to lift up his daughter, who lay unconscious on 
the floor, she opened her eyes with a deep sigh, 
but soon closed them again as if about to die. 
Then Krespel’s grief found vent aloud, and 
would not be comforted. The doctor, whom 
the old housekeeper had called in, pronounced 
Antonia’s case a somewhat serious but by no 
means dangerous attack; and she did, indeed, 
recover more quickly than her father had dared 
to hope. She now clung to him with the most 
confiding childlike affection; she entered into 
his favourite hobbies—into his mad schemes 
and whims. She helped him take old violins to 
pieces and glue new ones together. “I won’t 
sing again any more, but live for you,” she often 
said, sweetly smiling upon him, after she had 
been asked to sing, and had refused. Such ap¬ 
peals, however, the Councillor was anxious to 
spare her as much as possible; therefore it was 
that he was unwilling to take her into society, 
and solicitously shunned all music. He well 
understood how painful it must be for her to 
forego altogether the exercise of that art which 
io 5 




Masterpieces of Fiction 


she had brought to such a pitch of perfection. 
When the Councillor bought the wonderful 
violin that he had buried with Antonia, and was 
about to take it to pieces, she met him with 
such sadness in her face, and softly breathed 
the petition, “What! this as well?” By some 
power, which he could not explain, he felt im¬ 
pelled to leave this particular instrument un¬ 
broken, and to play upon it. Scarcely had he 
drawn the first few notes from it than Antonia 
cried aloud with joy, “Why, that’s me!—now I 
shall sing again.” And, in truth, there was 
something remarkably striking about the clear, 
silvery, bell-like tones of the violin; they seemed 
to have been engendered in the human soul. 
Krespel’s heart was deeply moved; he played, 
too, better than ever. As he ran up and down 
the scale, playing bold passages with consum¬ 
mate power and expression, she clapped her 
hands together and cried with delight, “I did 
that well! I did that well.” 

From this time onward, her life was filled with 
peace and cheerfulness. She often said to the 
Councillor, “I should like to sing something, 
father.” Then Krespel would take his violin 
down from the wall, and play her most beautiful 
songs, and her heart was right glad and happy. 
Shortly before my arrival in H-, the Coun¬ 

cillor fancied one night that he heard somebody 
playing the piano in the adjoining room, and he 
soon made out distinctly that B-was flourish¬ 

ing on the instrument in his usual style. He 
106 




The Cremona Violin 


wished to get up, but felt himself held down as 
if by a dead weight and lying as if fettered in 
iron bonds; he was utterly unable to move an 
inch. Then Antonia’s voice was heard singing 
low and soft; soon, however, it began to rise and 
rise in volume until it became an ear-splitting 
fortissimo ; and at length she passed over into a 

powerfully impressive song which B- had 

once composed for her in the devotional style of 
the old masters. Krespel described his condi¬ 
tion as being incomprehensible, for terrible an¬ 
guish was mingled with a delight he had never 
before experienced. All at once he was sur¬ 
rounded by a dazzling brightness, in which he 

beheld B- and Antonia locked in a close 

embrace, and gazing at each other in a rapture 
of ecstasy. The music of the song and of the 
pianoforte accompanying it went on without 
any visible signs that Antonia sang or that 

B- touched the instrument. Then the 

Councillor fell into a sort of dead faint, whilst the 
images vanished away. On awakening, he still 
felt the terrible anguish of his dream. He 
rushed into Antonia’s room. She lay on the sofa, 
her eyes closed, a sweet angelic smile on her face, 
her hands devoutly folded, and looking as if 
asleep and dreaming of the joys and raptures of 
heaven. But she was—dead. 


107 





PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 


BY 

Robert Louis Stevenson 
I 

Monsieur Leon Berthelini had a great care 
of his appearance, and sedulously suited his 
deportment to the costume of the hour. He 
affected something Spanish in his air, and some¬ 
thing of the bandit, with a flavour of Rembrandt 
at home. In person he was decidedly small and 
inclined to be stout; his face was the picture of 
good-humour; his dark eyes, which were very 
expressive, told of a kind heart, a brisk, merry 
nature, and the most indefatigable spirits. If 
he had worn the clothes of the period, you would 
have set him down for a hitherto undiscovered 
hybrid between the barber, the innkeeper, and 
the affable dispensing chemist. But in the out¬ 
rageous bravery of velvet jacket and flapped hat, 
with trousers that were more accurately de¬ 
scribed as fleshings, a white handkerchief cava¬ 
lierly knotted at his neck, a shock of Olympian 
curls upon his brow, and his feet shod through 
all weathers in the slenderest of Moli6re shoes, 
you had but to look at him and you knew you 
were in the presence of a Great Creature. When 

108 


Providence and the Guitar 


he wore an overcoat he scorned to pass the 
sleeves; a single button held it round his shoul¬ 
ders; it was tossed backward after the manner 
of a cloak, and carried with the gait and pres¬ 
ence of an Alma viva. I am of opinion that M. 
Berthelini was nearing forty. But he had a 
boy’s heart, gloried in his finery, and walked 
through life like a child in a perpetual dramatic 
performance. If he were not Almaviva after 
all, it was not for lack of making believe. And 
he enjoyed the artist's compensation. If he 
were not really Almaviva, he was sometimes 
just as happy as though he were. 

I have seen him, at moments when he has 
fancied himself alone with his Maker, adopt so 
gay and chivalrous a bearing, and represent his 
own part with so much warmth and conscience, 
that the illusion became catching, and I be¬ 
lieved implicitly in the Great Creature’s pose. 

But, alas! life cannot be entirely conducted 
on these principles; man cannot live by Alma- 
vivery alone; and the Great Creature, having 
failed upon several theatres, was obliged to step 
down every evening from his heights, and sing 
from half a dozen to a dozen comic songs, twang 
a guitar, keep a country audience in good hu¬ 
mour, and preside finally over the mysteries of 
a tombola. 

Madame Berthelini, who was art and part 
with him in these undignified labours, had per¬ 
haps a higher position in the scale of being, and 
enjoyed a natural dignity of her own. But her 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


heart was not any more rightly placed, for that 
would have been impossible; and she had ac¬ 
quired a little air of melancholy, attractive 
enough in its way, but not good to see like the 
wholesome, sky-scraping, boyish spirits of her 
lord. 

He, indeed, swam like a kite on a fair wind 
high above earthly troubles. Detonations of 
temper were not infrequent in the zones he trav¬ 
elled; but sulky fogs and tearful depressions 
were there alike unknown. A well-delivered 
blow upon a table, or a noble attitude, imitated 
from Melingne or Frederic, relieved his irrita¬ 
tion like a vengeance. Though the heavens had 
fallen, if he had played his part with propriety, 
Berthelini had been content! And the man’s 
atmosphere, if not his example, reacted on his 
wife; for the couple doted on each other, and 
although you would have thought they walked 
in different worlds, yet continued to walk hand 
in hand. 

It chanced one day that Monsieur and Madame 
Berthelini descended with two boxes and a gui¬ 
tar in a fat case at the station of the little town 
of Castel-le-Gachis, and the omnibus carried 
them with their effects to the Hotel of the Black 
Head. This was a dismal, conventual building 
in a narrow street, capable of standing siege 
when once the gates were shut, and smelling 
strangely, in the interior, of straw and chocolate 
and old feminine apparel. Berthelini paused 
upon the threshold with a painful premonition. 


no 


Providence and the Guitar 


In some former state, it seemed to him, he had 
visited a hostelry that smelled not otherwise, 
and been ill received. 

The landlord, a tragic person in a large felt 
hat, rose from a business table under the key- 
rack and came forward, removing his hat with 
both hands as he did so. 

“Sir, I salute you. May I inquire what is 
your charge for artists?” inquired Berthelini, 
with a courtesy at once splendid and insinuating. 

“For artists?” said the landlord. His coun¬ 
tenance fell and the smile of welcome disap¬ 
peared. “Oh, artists!” he added brutally; 
“four francs a day.” And he turned his back 
upon these inconsiderable customers. 

A commercial traveller is received, he also 
upon a reduction—yet is he welcome; yet can 
he command the fatted calf; but an artist, had 
he the manners of an Almaviva, were he dressed 
like Solomon in all his glory, is received like a 
dog, and served like a timid lady travelling 
alone. 

Accustomed as he was to the rubs of his pro¬ 
fession, Berthelini was unpleasantly affected 
by the landlord’s manner. 

“Elvira,” said he to his wife, “markmy words: 
Castel-le-Gachis is a tragic folly.” 

“Wait till we see what we take,” replied 
Elvira. 

“We shall take nothing,” returned Berthelini; 
“we shall feed upon insults. I have an eye, 
Elvira; I have a spirit of divination; and this 


hi 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


place is accursed. The landlord has been dis¬ 
courteous, the Commissary will be brutal, the 
audience will be sordid and uproarious, and you 
will take a cold upon your throat. We have 
been besotted enough to come; the die is cast; 
it will be a second Sedan.” 

Sedan was a town hateful to the Berthelinis, 
not only from patriotism (for they were French, 
and answered after the flesh to the somewhat 
homel y name of Duval), but because it had been 
the scene of their most sad reverses. In that 
place they had lain three weeks in pawn for their 
hotel bill, and had it not been for a surprising 
stroke of fortune they might have been lying 
there in pawn until this day. To mention the 
name of Sedan was for the Berthelinis to dip the 
brush in earthquake and eclipse. Count Alma- 
viva slouched his hat with a gesture expressive 
of despair, and even Elvira felt as if ill-fortune 
had been personally invoked. 

“Let us ask for breakfast,” said she, with a 
woman’s tact. 

The Commissary of Police of Castel-le-Gachis 
was a large red Commissary, pimpled, and sub¬ 
ject to a strong cutaneous transpiration. I 
have repeated the name of his office because he 
was so very much more a Commissary than a 
man. The spirit of his dignity had entered into 
him. He carried his corporation as if it were 
something official. Whenever he insulted a 
common citizen it seemed to him as if he were 
adroitly flattering the Government by a side 


112 


Providence and the Guitar 


wind; in default of dignity, he was brutal from 
an overweening sense of duty. His office was 
a den, whence passers-by could hear rude accents 
laying down, not the law, but the good pleasure 
of the Commissary. 

Six several times in the course of the day did 
M. Berthelini hurry thither in quest of the requi¬ 
site permission for his evening’s entertainment; 
six several times he found the official was abroad. 
L6on Berthelini began to grow quite a familiar 
figure in the streets of Castel-le-Gachis; he be¬ 
came a local celebrity, and was pointed out as 
“the man who was looking for the Commissary.” 
Idle children attached themselves to his foot¬ 
steps, and trotted after him back and forward 
between the hotel and the office. Leon might 
try as he liked; he might roll cigarettes, he 
might straddle, he might cock his hat at a dozen 
different jaunty inclinations—the part of Alma- 
viva was, under the circumstances, difficult to 
play. 

As he passed the market-place upon the sev¬ 
enth excursion, the Commissary was pointed 
out to him, where he stood, with his waistcoat 
unbuttoned and his hands behind his back, to 
superintend the sale and measurement of butter. 
Berthelini threaded his way through the market- 
stalls and baskets, and accosted the dignitary 
with a bow which was a triumph of the histri¬ 
onic art. 

“I have the honour,” he asked, “of meeting 
M. le Commissaire ? ” 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


The Commissary was affected by the nobility 
of his address. He excelled L6on in the depth, 
if not in the airy grace, of his salutation. 

‘‘The honour,” said he, “is mine!” 

‘‘I am,” continued the strolling player, “I 
am, sir, an artist, and I have permitted myself 
to interrupt you on an affair of business. To¬ 
night I give a trifling musical entertainment at 
the Caf6 of the Triumphs of the Plow—permit 
me to offer you this little programme—and I 
have come to ask you for the necessary author¬ 
isation.” 

At the word “artist,” the Commissary had 
replaced his hat with an air of a person who, 
having condescended too far, should suddenly 
remember the duties of his rank. 

“Go, go,” said he; “I am busy—I am meas¬ 
uring butter.” 

“Heathen Jew!” thought L6on. “Permit me, 
sir,” he resumed, aloud. “I have gone six times 
already-” 

“Put up your bills if you choose,” interrupted 
the Commissary. “In an hour or so I will ex¬ 
amine your papers at the office. But now go; 
I am busy.” 

“ Measuring butter ! ” thought Berthelini. 
“Oh, France, and it is for this that we made 
93 - ” 

The preparations were soon made; the bills 
posted, programmes laid on the dinner-table of 
every hotel in the town, and a stage erected at 
one end of the Caf6 of the Triumphs of the Plow; 



Providence and the Guitar 


but when Leon returned to the office, the Com¬ 
missary was once more abroad. 

“He is like Madame Benoiton,” thought L6on. 

' * Fichu Commissaire ! ’ ’ 

And just then he met the man face to face. 

“Here, sir,” said he, “are my papers. Will 
you be pleased to verify?” 

But the Commissary was now intent upon 
dinner. 

“No use,” he replied, “no use; I am busy; 
I am quite satisfied. Give your entertain¬ 
ment.” 

And he hurried on. 

“Fichu Commissaire /” thought L6on. 

II 

The audience was pretty large; and the pro¬ 
prietor of the cafe made a good thing of it in 
beer. But the Berthelinis exerted themselves 
in vain. 

L6on was radiant in velveteen; he had a 
rakish way of smoking a cigarette between his 
songs that was worth money in itself; he under¬ 
lined his comic points so that the dullest num¬ 
skull in Castel-le-Gachis had a notion when to 
laugh; and he handled his guitar in a manner 
worthy of himself. Indeed, his play with that 
instrument was as good as a whole romantic 
drama; it was so dashing, so florid, and so 
cavalier. 

Elvira, on the other hand, sang her patriotic 
ii5 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


and romantic songs with more than usual ex¬ 
pression; her voice had charm and plangency; 
and as Leon looked at her, in her low-bodied 
maroon dress, with her arms bare to the shoulder, 
and a red flower set provocatively in her corset, 
he repeated to himself for the many hundredth 
time that she was one of the loveliest creatures 
in the world of women. 

Alas! when she went round with the tam¬ 
bourine, the golden youth of Castel-le-Gachis 
turned from her coldly. Here and there a single 
halfpenny was forthcoming; the net result of a 
collection never exceeded half a franc; and the 
Maire himself, after seven different applications, 
had contributed exactly twopence. A certain 
chill began to settle upon the artists themselves; 
it seemed as if they were singing to slugs; Apollo 
himself might have lost heart with such an au¬ 
dience. The Berthelinis struggled against the 
impression; they put their back into their 
work, they sang loud and louder, the guitar 
twanged like a living thing; and at last Leon 
arose in his might and burst with inimitable con¬ 
viction into his great song, “Y a des honnHes 
gens partout /” Never had he given more proof 
of his artistic mastery; it was his intimate, 
indefeasible conviction that Castel-le-Gachis 
formed an exception to the law he was now 
lyrically proclaiming, and was peopled exclu¬ 
sively by thieves and bullies; and yet, as I say, 
he flung it down like a challenge, he trolled it 
forth like an article of faith; and his face so 
116 


Providence and the Guitar 


beamed the while that you would have thought 
he must make converts of the benches. 

He was at the top of his register, with his head 
thrown back and his mouth open, when the door 
was thrown violently open, and a pair of new¬ 
comers marched noisily into the caf6. It was 
the Commissary, followed by the Garde Cham- 
p£tre. 

The undaunted Berthelini still continued to 
proclaim, “Fa des honnetes gens partout!” But 
now the sentiment produced an audible titter 
among the audience. Berthelini wondered why; 
he did not know the antecedents of the Garde 
Champetre; he had never heard of a little story 
about postage-stamps. But the public knew 
all about the postage-stamps and enjoyed the 
coincidence hugely. 

The Commissary planted himself upon a va¬ 
cant chair with somewhat the air of Cromwell 
visiting the Rump, and spoke in occasional whis¬ 
pers to the Garde Champetre, who remained re¬ 
spectfully standing at his back. The eyes of 
both were directed upon Berthelini, who per¬ 
sisted in his statement. 

“y a des honnetes gens partout ,” he was just 
chanting for the twentieth time; when up got 
the Commissary upon his feet and waved bru¬ 
tally to the singer with his cane. 

“Is it me you want?” inquired L6on, stopping 
in his song. 

“It is you,” replied the potentate. 

“Fichu Commissaire /” thought IA>n, and he 

ll 7 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


descended from the stage and made his way to 
the functionary. 

“How does it happen, sir,” said the Commis¬ 
sary, swelling in person, “that I find you mounte¬ 
banking in a public cafe without my permission ? ” 

4 4 Without ? ” cried the indignant Leon. 4 4 Per¬ 
mit me to remind you-” 

“Come, come, sir!” said the Commissary, 
“I desire no explanations.” 

“I care nothing about what you desire,” re¬ 
turned the singer. 4 4 1 choose to give them, and 
I will not be gagged. I am an artist, sir, a dis¬ 
tinction that you cannot comprehend. I re¬ 
ceived your permission, and stand here upon the 
strength of it; interfere with me who dare.” 

“You have not got my signature, I tell you,” 
cried the Commissary. “Show me my signa¬ 
ture! Where is my signature?” 

That was just the question; where was his 
signature? L6on recognised that he was in a 
hole; but his spirit rose with the occasion, and 
he blustered nobly, tossing back his curls. The 
Commissary played up to him in the character 
of tyrant; and as the one leaned farther forward, 
the other leaned farther back—majesty confront¬ 
ing fury. The audience had transferred their 
attention to this new performance, and listened 
with that silent gravity common to all French¬ 
men in the neighbourhood of the Police. El¬ 
vira had sat down: she was used to these dis¬ 
tractions, and it was rather melancholy than 
fear that now oppressed her. 

118 



Providence and the Guitar 


“Another word,” cried the Commissary, “and 
I arrest you.” 

“Arrest me?” shouted L4on. “I defy you!” 

“I am the Commissary of Police,” said the 
official. 

L6on commanded his feelings, and replied, 
with great delicacy of innuendo, “So it would 
appear.” 

The point was too refined for Castel-le-Gachis; 
it did not raise a smile; and as for the Commis¬ 
sary, he simply bade the singer follow him to his 
office, and directed his proud footsteps toward 
the door. There was nothing for it but to obey. 
L6on did so with a proper pantomime of indiffer¬ 
ence, but it was a leek to eat, and there was no 
denying it. 

The Maire had slipped out and was already 
waiting at the Commissary’s door. Now the 
Maire, in France, is the refuge of the oppressed. 
He stands between his people and the boisterous 
rigours of the Police. He can sometimes under¬ 
stand what is said to him; he is not always 
puffed up beyond measure by his dignity. ’Tis 
a thing worth the knowledge of travellers. When 
all seems over, and a man has made up his mind 
to injustice, he has still, like the heroes of ro¬ 
mance, a little bugle at his belt whereon to blow; 
and the Maire, a comfortable deus ex machina, 
may still descend to deliver him from the min¬ 
ions of the law. The Maire of Castel-le-Gachis, 
although inaccessible to the charms of music as 
retailed by the Berthelinis, had no hesitation 
119 


Masterpieces of Fiction 




whatever as to the rights of the matter. He 
instantly fell foul of the Commissary in very 
high terms, and the Commissary, pricked by 
this humiliation, accepted battle on the point of 
fact. The argument lasted some little while 
with varying success, until at length victory 
inclined so plainly to the Commissary’s side that 
the Maire was fain to reassert himself by an ex¬ 
ercise of authority. He had been out-argued, 
but he was still the Maire. And so, turning 
from his interlocutor, he briefly but kindly 
recommended L6on to get back instanter to his 
concert. 

“It is already growing late,” he added. 

L6on did not wait to be told twice. He re¬ 
turned to the Cafe of the Triumphs of the Plow 
with all expedition. Alas, the audience had 
melted away during his absence; Elvira was 
sitting in a very disconsolate attitude on the 
guitar-box; she had watched the company dis¬ 
persing by twos and threes, and the prolonged 
spectacle had somewhat overwhelmed her spirits. 
Each man, she reflected, retired with a certain 
proportion of her earnings in his pocket, and she 
saw to-night’s board and to-morrow’s railway 
expenses, and finally even to-morrow’s dinner, 
walk one after another out of the caf6 door and 
disappear into the night. 

“What was it?” she asked, languidly. 

But Leon did not answer. He was looking 
round him on the scene of defeat. Scarce a 
score of listeners remained, and these of the 


120 


Providence and the Guitar 


least promising sort. The minute-hand of the 
clock was already climbing upward toward 
eleven. 

“It’s a lost battle,” said he, and then, taking 
up the money-box, he turned it out. “Three 
francs seventy-five!” he cried, “as against four 
of board and six of railway fares; and no time 
for the tombola! Elvira, this is Waterloo.” 
And he sat down and passed both hands des¬ 
perately among his curls. “O Fichu Commis- 
saire!” he cried, “Fichu Commissaire!” 

“Let us get the things together and be off,” 
returned Elvira. “We might try another song, 
but there is not six halfpence in the room.” 

“Six halfpence?” cried Leon, “six hundred 
thousand devils! There is not a human creature 
in the town—nothing but pigs and dogs and 
commissiares! Pray Heaven, we get safe to 
bed.” 

“Don’t imagine things!” exclaimed Elvira, 
with a shudder. 

And with that they set to work on their prepa¬ 
rations. The tobacco-jar, the cigarette-holder, 
the three papers of shirt-studs which were to 
have been the prizes of the tombola had the tom¬ 
bola come off, were made into a bundle with the 
music; the guitar was stowed into the fat 
guitar-case; and Elvira having thrown a thin 
shawl about her neck and shoulders, the pair 
issued from the caf6 and set off for the Black 
Hand. 

As they crossed the market-place the church 


I 2 I 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


bell rang out eleven. It was a dark, mild night* 
and there was no one in the streets. 

“It is all very fine,” said Leon; “but I have 
a presentiment. The night is not yet done.” 

Ill 

The “Black Head” presented not a single 
chink of light upon the street, and the carriage- 
gate was closed. 

“This is unprecedented,” observed L£on. 
“An inn closed by five minutes after eleven! 
And there were several commercial travellers 
in the cafe up to a late hour. Elvira, my heart 
misgives me. Let us ring the bell.” 

The bell had a potent note; and being swung 
under the arch, it filled the house from top 
to bottom with surly, clanging reverberations. 
The sound accentuated the conventual appear¬ 
ance of the building; a wintry sentiment, a 
thought of prayer and mortification, took hold 
upon Elvira’s mind; and as for L6on, he seemed 
to be reading the stage-directions for a lugu¬ 
brious fifth act. 

“This is your fault,” said Elvira; “this is 
what comes of fancying things!” 

Again Leon pulled the bell-rope; again the 
solemn tocsin awoke the echoes of the inn; and 
ere they had died away, a light glimmered in the 
carriage entrance, and a powerful voice was 
heard upraised and tremulous with wrath. 

“What’s all this?” cried the tragic host 


122 


Providence and the Guitar 


through the spars of the gate. “Hard upon 
twelve, and you come clamouring like Prussians 
at the door of a respectable hotel? Oh!" he 
cried, “I know you now! Common singers! 
People in trouble with the police! And you 
present yourselves at midnight like lords and 
ladies? Be off with you!" 

“You will permit me to remind you," replied 
L£on, in thrilling tones, “that I am a guest in 
your house, that I am properly inscribed, and 
that I have deposited baggage to the value of 
four hundred francs." 

“You cannot get in at this hour," returned 
the man. “This is no thieves’ tavern, for Mo¬ 
hocks and night-rakes and organ-grinders." 

“Brute!” cried Elvira, for the organ-grinders 
touched her home. 

“Then I demand my baggage,” said L6on, 
with unabated dignity. 

“I know nothing of your baggage,” replied 
the landlord. 

“You detain my baggage? You dare to de¬ 
tain my baggage?" cried the singer. 

“Who are you?" returned the landlord. “It 
is dark—I cannot recognise you." 

“Very well, then—you detain my baggage," 
concluded L6on. “You shall smart for this. 
I will weary out your life with persecutions; I 
will drag you from court to court; if there is 
justice to be had in France, it shall be rendered 
between you and me. And I will make you a 
byword—I will put you in a song—a scurrilous 


123 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


song—an indecent song—a popular song—which 
the boys shall sing to you in the street, and come 
and howl through these spars at midnight.” 

He had gone on raising his voice at every 
phrase, for all the while the landlord was very 
placidly retiring; and now, when the last glim¬ 
mer of light had vanished from the arch, and 
the last footstep died away in the interior, L6on 
turned to his wife with a heroic countenance. 

“Elvira,” said he, “I have now a duty in life. 
I shall destroy that man as Eugene Sue destroyed 
the concierge. Let us come at once to the 
Gendarmerie and begin our vengeance.” 

He picked up the guitar-case, which had been 
propped against the wall, and they set forth 
through the silent and ill-lighted town with 
burning hearts. 

The Gendarmerie was concealed beside the 
telegraph office at the bottom of a vast court, 
which was partly laid out in gardens; and here 
all the shepherds of the public lay locked in 
grateful sleep. It took a deal of knocking to 
waken one; and he, when he came at last to the 
door, could find no other remark but that “it 
was none of his business.” 

Leon reasoned with him, threatened him, be¬ 
sought him: “Here,” he said, “was Madame 
Berthelini in evening dress—a delicate woman 
—in an interesting condition”—the last was 
thrown in, I fancy, for effect; and to all this 
the man-at-arms made the same answer: 

“It is none of my business,” said he. 


124 


Providence and the Guitar 


“Very well/’ said L6on; “then we shall go 
to the Commissary.” 

Thither they went; the office was closed and 
dark; but the house was close by, and L£on was 
soon swinging the bell like a madman. The Com¬ 
missary’s wife appeared at a window. She was 
a thread-paper creature, and informed them 
that the Commissary had not yet come home. 

‘‘Is he at the Maire’s? ” demanded L6on. 

She thought that was not unlikely. 

“Where is the Maire’s house?” he asked. 

And she gave him some rather vague informa¬ 
tion on that point. 

“Stay you here, Elvira,” said L6on, “lest I 
should miss him by the way. If, when I re¬ 
turn, I find you here no longer, I shall follow at 
once to the Black Head.” 

And he set out to find the Maire’s. It took 
him some ten minutes’ wandering among blind 
lanes, and when he arrived it was already half 
an hour past midnight. A long white garden- 
wall overhung by some thick chestnuts, a door 
with a letter-box, and an iron bell-pull—that was 
all that could be seen of the Maire’s domicile. 
L6on took the bell-pull in both hands, and 
danced furiously upon the sidewalk. The bell 
itself was just upon the other side of the wall; 
it responded to his activity, and scattered an 
alarming clangour far and wide into the night. 

A window was thrown open in a house across 
the street, and a voice inquired the cause of this 
untimely uproar. 


i 2 5 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


“I wish the Maire,” said Leon. 

“He has been in bed this hour,” returned the 
voice. 

“He must get up again,” retorted Leon, and 
he was for tackling the bell-pull once more. 

“You will never make him hear,” responded 
the voice. “The garden is of great extent, the 
house is at the farther end, and both the Maire 
and his housekeeper are deaf.” 

“Aha!” said Leon, pausing. “The Maire is 
deaf, is he? That explains.” And he thought 
of the evening’s concert with a momentary feel¬ 
ing of relief. “Ah!” he continued, “and so the 
Maire is deaf, and the garden vast, and the house 
at the far end?” 

“And you might ring all night,” added the 
voice, “and be none the better for it. You 
would only keep me awake.” 

“Thank you, neighbour,” replied the singer. 
“You shall sleep.” 

And he made off again at his best pace for the 
Commissary’s. Elvira was still walking to and 
fro before the door. 

“He has not come?” asked Leon. 

“Not he,” she replied. 

“Good,” returned Leon. “I am sure our 
man’s inside. Let me see the guitar-case. I 
shall lay this siege in form, Elvira; I am angry; 
I am indignant; I am truculently inclined; but 
I thank my Maker I have still a sense of fun. 
The unjust judge shall be importuned in a sere¬ 
nade, Elvira. Set him up—and set him up.” 

126 


Providence and the Guitar 


He had the case opened by this time, struck a 
few chords, and fell into an attitude which was 
irresistibly Spanish. 

“Now,” he continued, “feel your voice. Are 
you ready? Follow me!” 

The guitar twanged, and the two voices up¬ 
raised, in harmony and with a startling loud¬ 
ness, the chorus of a song of Old B6ranger’s: 

“ Commissaire! Commissaire! 

Colin bat sa m6nagere.” 

The stones of Castel-le-Gachis thrilled at this 
audacious innovation. Hitherto had the night 
been sacred to repose and nightcaps; and now 
what was this? Window after window was 
opened; matches scratched, and candles began 
to flicker; swollen sleepy faces peered forth 
into the starlight. There were the two figures 
before the Commissary’s house, each bolt up¬ 
right, with head thrown back and eyes interro¬ 
gating the starry heavens; the guitar wailed, 
shouted, and reverberated like half an orchestra; 
and the voices, with a crisp and spirited delivery, 
hurled the opprobrious burden at the Commis¬ 
sary’s window. All the echoes repeated the func¬ 
tionary’ - ; name. It was more like an entr’acte 
in a farce of Moli&re’s than a passage of real life 
in Castel-le-Gachis. 

The Commissary, if he was not the first, was 
not the last of the neighbours to yield to the in¬ 
fluence of music, and furiously throw open the 
127 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


window of his bedroom. He was beside him¬ 
self with rage. He leaned far over the window¬ 
sill, raving and gesticulating; the tassel of his 
white nightcap danced like a thing of life; he 
opened his mouth to dimensions hitherto un¬ 
precedented, and yet his voice, instead of escap¬ 
ing from it in a roar, came forth shrill and 
choked and tottering. A little more serenading, 
and it was clear he would be better acquainted 
with the apoplexy. 

I scorn to reproduce his language; he touched 
upon too many serious topics by the way for a 
quiet story-teller. Although he was known for 
a man who was prompt with his tongue, and had 
a power of strong expression at command, he 
excelled himself so remarkably this night that 
one maiden lady, who had got out of bed, like 
the rest, to hear the serenade, was obliged to 
shut her window at the second clause. Even 
what she had heard disquieted her conscience; 
and next day she said she scarcely reckoned her¬ 
self as a maiden lady any longer. 

L6on tried to explain his predicament, but he 
received nothing but threats of arrest by way of 
answer. 

“If I come down to you ! ” cried the Com¬ 
missary. 

“Ay,” said Leon, “ do.” 

“I will not!” cried the Commissary. 

“You dare not!” answered L4on. 

At that the Commissary closed his window. 

“All is over,” said the singer. “The serenade 
128 


Providence and the Guitar 


was perhaps ill-judged. These boors have no 
sense of humour.” 

“Let us get away from here,” said Elvira, 
with a shiver. “All these people looking—it is 
so rude and so brutal.” And then giving way 
once more to passion—‘‘Brutes! ” she cried aloud 
to the candle-lighted spectators—‘‘brutes! 
brutes! brutes!” 

“Sauve qui pent ,” said Leon. “You have 
done it now!” 

And taking the guitar in one hand and the 
case in the other, he led the way, with something 
too precipitate to be merely called precipitation, 
from the scene of this absurd adventure. 

IV 

To the west of Castel-le-Gachis four rows of 
venerable lime-trees formed, in this starry night, 
a twilighted avenue with two side aisles of pitch 
darkness. Here and there stone benches were 
disposed between the trunks. There was not a 
breath of wind; a heavy atmosphere of perfume 
hung about the alleys; and every leaf stood 
stock still upon its twig. Hither, after vainly 
knocking at an inn or two, the Berthelinis came 
at length to pass the night. After an amiable 
contention, L6on insisted on giving his coat to 
Elvira, and they sat down together on the first 
bench in silence. L6on made a cigarette, which 
he smoked to an end, looking up into the trees 
and, beyond them, at the constellations, of which 


129 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


he tried vainly to recall the names. The silence 
was broken by the church bell; it rang the four 
quarters on a light and tinkling measure; then 
followed a single deep stroke that died slowly 
away with a thrill; and stillness resumed its 
empire. 

“One,” said Leon. “Four hours till daylight. 
It is warm; it is starry; I have matches and 
tobacco. Do not let us exaggerate, Elvira—the 
experience is positively charming. I feel a glow 
within me; I am born again. This is the poetry 
of life. Think of Cooper’s novels, my dear.” 

“Leon,” she said fiercely, “how can you talk 
such wicked, infamous nonsense? To pass all 
night out of doors—it is like a nightmare! We 
shall die.” 

“You suffer yourself to be led away,” he re¬ 
plied soothingly. “It is not unpleasant here; 
only you brood. Come, now, let us repeat a 
scene. Shall we try Alceste and Celimene? No? 
Or a passage from the ‘Two Orphans?’ Come, 
now, it will occupy your mind; I will play up to 
you as I never have played before; I feel art 
moving in my bones.” 

“Hold your tongue,” she cried, “or you will 
drive me mad! Will nothing solemnise you— 
not even this hideous situation?” 

“Oh, hideous!” objected Leon. “Hideous 
is not the word. Why, where would you be? 
l Dites, la jeune belle , ou voulez-vous aller ?’” he 
carolled. “Well, now,” he went on, opening the 
guitar-case, “there’s another idea for you—sing. 


130 


Providence and the Guitar 


Sing ‘Dites, la jeune belle!' It will compose your 
spirits, Elvira. I am sure.” 

And without waiting an answer, he began to 
strum a symphony. The first chords awoke a 
young man who was lying asleep upon a neigh¬ 
bouring bench. 

“Hullo!” cried the young man. “Who are 
you?” 

“Under which king, Bezonian?” declaimed 
the artist. “Speak or die!” 

Or if it was not exactly that, it was something 
to much the same purpose from a French tragedy. 

The young man drew near in the twilight. He 
was a tall, powerful, gentlemanly fellow, with 
a somewhat puffy face, dressed in a gray tweed 
suit, with a deer-stalker hat of the same material; 
and as he now came forward he carried a knap¬ 
sack slung upon one arm. 

“Are you camping out here, too?” he asked, 
with a strong English accent. “I’m not sorry 
for company.” 

Leon explained their misadventure; and the 
other told them that he was a Cambridge under¬ 
graduate on a walking-tour, that he had run 
short of money, could no longer pay for his 
night’s lodging, had already been camping out 
for two nights, and feared he should require to 
continue the same manoeuvre for at least two 
nights more. 

“Luckily, it’s jolly weather,” he concluded. 

“You hear that, Elvira,” saidL6on. “Madame 
Berthelini,” he went on, “is ridiculously affected 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


by this trifling occurrence. For my part, I find 
it romantic and far from uncomfortable; or at 
least,” he added, shifting on the stone bench, 

* ‘ not quite so uncomfortable as might have been 
expected. But pray be seated.” 

“Yes,” returned the undergraduate, sitting 
down, “it’s rather nice than otherwise when once 
you’re used to it; only it’s devilish difficult to 
get washed. I like the fresh air and these stars 
and things.” 

“Aha!” said Leon. “Monsieur is an artist.” 

“An artist?” returned the other, with a blank 
stare. “Not if I know it!” 

“Pardon me,” said the actor. “What you 
said this moment about the orbs of heaven-” 

“Oh, nonsense!” cried the Englishman. “A 
fellow may admire the stars, and be anything he 
likes.” 

“You have an artist’s nature, however, Mr. 
-. I beg your pardon; may I, without indis¬ 
cretion, inquire your name?” asked Leon. 

“My name is Stubbs,” replied the English¬ 
man. 

“I thank you,” returned L6on. “Mine is 
Berthelini—Leon Berthelini, ex-artist of the 
theatres of Montrouge, Belleville, and Mont¬ 
martre. Humble as you see me, I have created 
with applause more than one important role. 
The Press were unanimous in praise of my Howl¬ 
ing Devil of the Mountains, in the piece of the 
same name. Madame, whom I now present to 
you, is herself an artist, and, I must not omit to 


132 




Providence and the Guitar 


state, a better artist than her husband. She 
also is a creator; she created nearly twenty 
successful songs at one of the principal Parisian 
music-halls. But, to continue, I was saying 
you had an artist’s nature, Monsieur Stubbs, 
and you must permit me to be a judge in such a 
question. I trust you will not falsify your in¬ 
stincts; let me beseech you to follow the career 
of an artist.” 

‘‘Thank you,” returned Stubbs, with a chuckle. 
“I’m going to be a banker.” 

“No,” said Leon; “do not say so. Not that. 
A man with such a nature as yours should not 
derogate so far. What are a few privations here 
and there, so long as you are working for a high 
and noble goal?” 

“This fellow’s mad,” thought Stubbs; “but 
the woman’s rather pretty, and he’s not bad fun 
himself, if you come to that.” What he said 
was different. “I thought you said you were 
an actor?” 

“I certainly did so,” replied Leon. “I am 
one, or, alas! I was.” 

‘ ‘ And so you want me to be an actor, do you ? ’ ’ 
continued the undergraduate. “Why, man, I 
could never so much as learn the stuff; my 
memory’s like a sieve; and as for acting, I’ve 
no more idea than a cat.” 

“The stage is not the only course,” said L6on. 
“ Be a sculptor, be a dancer, be a poet or a novel¬ 
ist; follow your heart, in short, and do some 
thorough work before you die.” 


*33 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


‘‘And do you call all these things art?" in¬ 
quired Stubbs. 

“Why, certainly!” returned Leon. “Are they 
not all branches?” 

“Oh! I didn’t know,” replied the English¬ 
man. “I thought an artist meant a fellow who 
painted.” 

The singer stared at him in some surprise. 

“It is the difference of language,” he said at 
last. “This Tower of Babel—when shall we 
have paid for it? If I could speak English you 
would follow me more readily.” 

“Between you and me, I don’t believe I 
should,” replied the other. “You seem to have 
thought a devil of a lot about this business. For 
my part, I admire the stars, and like to have 
them shining—it’s so cheery—but hang me if 
I had an idea it had anything to do with art! 
It’s not in my line, you see. I’m not intellec¬ 
tual ; I have no end of trouble to scrape through 
my exams., I can tell you! But I’m not a bad 
sort at bottom,” he added, seeing his interlocu¬ 
tor looked distressed even in the dim starshine, 
“and I rather like the play, and music, and gui¬ 
tars, and things.” 

Leon had a perception that the understanding 
was incomplete. He changed the subject. 

“And so you travel on foot?” he continued. 
“How romantic! How courageous! And how 
are you pleased with my land? How does the 
scenery affect you among these wild hills of 
ours ? ’ ’ 


134 


Providence and the Guitar 


“Well, the fact is-” began Stubbs. He was 

about to say that he didn't care for scenery, 
which was not at all true, being, on the con¬ 
trary, only an athletic undergraduate preten¬ 
sion; but he had begun to suspect that Berthe- 
lini liked a different sort of meat, and substituted 
something else: “The fact is, I think it jolly. 
They told me it was no good up here; even the 
guide-book said so; but I don’t know what they 
meant. I think it is deuced pretty—upon my 
word, I do.” 

At this moment, in the most unexpected man¬ 
ner, Elvira burst into tears. 

“My voice!” she cried. “Leon, if I stay here 
longer I shall lose my voice!” 

“You shall not stay another moment,” cried 
the actor. “If I have to beat in a door, if I 
have to bum the town, I shall find you shelter.” 

With that, he replaced the guitar, and com¬ 
forting her with some caresses, drew her arm 
through his. 

“Monsieur Stubbs,” said he, taking off his 
hat, “the reception I offer you is rather prob¬ 
lematical ; but let me beseech you to give us the 
pleasure of your society. You are a little em¬ 
barrassed for the moment; you must, indeed, 
permit me to advance what may be necessary. 
I ask it as a favour; we must not part so soon 
after having met so strangely.” 

“Oh, come, you know,” said Stubbs, “I can’t 

let a fellow like you-” And there he paused, 

feeling somehow or other on a wrong tack. 

US 



Masterpieces of Fiction 


“I do not wish to employ menaces,” con¬ 
tinued L6on, with a smile; “but if you refuse, 
indeed I shall not take it kindly.” 

“I don’t quite see my way out of it,” thought 
the undergraduate; and then, after a pause, he 
said, aloud and ungraciously enough, “All right. 
I—I’m very much obliged, of course.” And he 
proceeded to follow them, thinking in his heart, 
‘ ‘ But it’s bad form, all the same, to force an ob¬ 
ligation on a fellow.” 


V 

Leon strode ahead as if he knew exactly where 
he was going; the sobs of Madame were still 
faintly audible, and no one uttered a word. A 
dog barked furiously in a courtyard as they 
went by; then the church clock struck two, and 
many domestic clocks followed or preceded it 
in piping tones. And just then Berthelini spied 
a light. It burned in a small house on the out¬ 
skirts of the town, and thither the party now 
directed their steps. 

“It is always a chance,” said Leon. 

The house in question stood back from the 
street behind an open space, part garden, part 
turnip-field; and several outhouses stood for¬ 
ward from either wing at right angles to the 
front. One of these had recently undergone 
some change. An enormous window, looking 
toward the north, had been effected in the wall 
and roof, and Leon began to hope it was a studio. 

136 


Providence and the Guitar 


“If it’s only a painter,” he said, with a chuckle, 
“ten to one we get as good a welcome as we 
want.” 

“I thought painters were principally poor,” 
said Stubbs. 

“Ah!” cried L6on, “you do not know the 
world as I do. The poorer the better for us.” 

And the trio advanced into the turnip-field. 

The light was in the ground floor; as one 
window was brightly illuminated and two others 
more faintly, it might be supposed that there 
was a single lamp in one corner of a large apart¬ 
ment; and a certain tremulousness and tem¬ 
porary dwindling showed that a live fire con¬ 
tributed to the effect. The sound of a voice now 
became audible; and the trespassers paused to 
listen. It was pitched in a high, angry key, but 
had still a good, full, and masculine note in it. 
The utterance was voluble—too voluble even to 
be quite distinct: a stream of words, rising and 
falling, with ever and again a phrase thrown out 
by itself, as if the speaker reckoned on its virtue. 

Suddenly another voice joined in. This time 
it was a woman’s; and if the man were angry, the 
woman was incensed to the degree of fury. 
There was that absolutely blank composure 
known to suffering males; that colourless un¬ 
natural speech which shows a spirit accurately 
balanced between homicide and hysterics; the 
tone in which the best of women sometimes utter 
words worse than death to those most dear to 
them. If Abstract Bones-and-Sepulchre were to 

137 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


be endowed with the gift of speech, thus, and 
not otherwise, would it discourse. L4on was a 
brave man, and I fear he was somewhat scep¬ 
tically given (he had been educated in a Papis¬ 
tical country), but the habit of childhood pre¬ 
vailed, and he crossed himself devoutly. He 
had met several women in his career. It was 
obvious that his instinct had not deceived him, 
for the male voice broke forth instantly in a tow¬ 
ering passion. 

The undergraduate, who had not understood 
the significance of the woman’s contribution, 
pricked up his ears at the change upon the man. 

“There’s going to be a free fight,” he opined. 

There was another retort from the woman, 
still calm but a little higher. 

“Hysterics?” asked Leon of his wife. “Is 
that the stage direction?” 

“How should I know?” returned Elvira, 
somewhat tartly. 

“Oh, woman, woman!” said L4on, beginning 
to open the guitar-case. “It is one of the bur¬ 
dens of my life, Monsieur Stubbs; they support 
each other; they always pretend there is no 
system; they say it’s nature. Even Madame 
Berthelini, who is a dramatic artist!” 

“You are heartless, Leon,” said Elvira; “that 
woman is in trouble.” 

“And the man, my angel?” inquired Berthe¬ 
lini, passing the ribbon of his guitar. “And the 
man, m’amour?” 

“He is a man,” she answered. 

138 


Providence and the Guitar 


“You hear that?” said Leon to Stubbs. “It 
is not too late for you. Mark the intonation. 
And now,” he continued, “what are we to give 
them?” 

“Are you going to sing?” asked Stubbs. 

“I am a troubadour,” replied L6on. “I 
claim a welcome by and for my art. If I were 
a banker could I do as much?” 

“Well, you wouldn't need, you know,” an¬ 
swered the undergraduate. 

“Egad,” said Leon, “but that’s true. Elvira, 
that is true.” 

“Of course it is,” she replied. “Did you not 
know it?” 

“My dear,” answered L6on, impressively, “I 
know nothing but what is agreeable. Even my 
knowledge of life is a work of art superiorly com¬ 
posed. But what are we to give them? It 
should be something appropriate.” 

Visions of “Let dogs delight” passed through 
the undergraduate’s mind; but it occurred to 
him that the poetry was English and that he 
did not know the air. Hence he contributed no 
suggestion. 

“Something about our houselessness,” said 
Elvira. 

“I have it,” cried L6on. And he broke forth 
into a song of Pierre Dupont’s: 

“ Savez-vous ou gite 
Mai, ce joli mois ? ” 

Elvira joined in; so did Stubbs, with a good 
ear and voice, but an imperfect acquaintance 


i39 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


with the music. Leon and the guitar were equal 
to the situation. The actor dispensed his throat- 
notes with prodigality and enthusiasm; and, as 
he looked up to heaven in his heroic way, tossing 
the black ringlets, it seemed to him that the very 
stars contributed a dumb applause to his efforts, 
and the universe lent him its silence for a chorus. 
That is one of the best features of the heavenly 
bodies—that they belong to everybody in par¬ 
ticular; and a man like Leon, a chronic En- 
dymion who managed to get along without 
encouragement, is always the world’s centre 
for himself. 

He alone—and, it is to be noted, he was the 
worst singer of the three—took the music se¬ 
riously to heart, and judged the serenade from 
a high artistic point of view. Elvira, on the 
other hand, was preoccupied about their recep¬ 
tion; and as for Stubbs, he considered the whole 
affair in the light of a broad joke. 

“Know you the lair of May, the lovely 
month?” went the three voices in the turnip- 
field. 

The inhabitants were plainly fluttered; the 
light moved to and fro, strengthening in one 
window, paling in another; and then the door 
was thrown open, and a man in a blouse ap¬ 
peared on the threshold carrying a lamp. He 
was a powerful young fellow, with bewildered 
hair and beard, wearing his neck open; his 
blouse was stained with oil-colours in a harle- 
quinesque disorder; and there was something 


140 


Providence and the Guitar 


rural in the droop and bagginess of his belted 
trousers. 

From immediately behind him, and indeed 
over his shoulder, a woman’s face looked out into 
the darkness; it was pale and a little weary, 
although still young; it wore a dwindling, dis¬ 
appearing prettiness, soon to be quite gone, and 
the expression was both gentle and sour, and 
reminded one faintly of the taste of certain drugs. 
For all that, it was not a face to dislike; when 
the prettiness had vanished, it seemed as if a 
certain pale beauty might step in to take its 
place; and as both the mildness and the asperity 
were characters of youth, it might be hoped that, 
with years, both would merge into a constant, 
brave, and not unkindly temper. 

“What is all this?” cried the man. 

VI 

Leon had his hat in his hand at once. He 
came forward with his customary grace ; it was 
a moment which would have earned him a round 
of cheering on the stage. Elvira and Stubbs 
advanced behind him, like a couple of Admetus’s 
sheep following the god Apollo. 

“Sir,” said L6on, “the hour is unpardonably 
late, and our little serenade has the air of an 
impertinence. Believe me, sir, it is an appeal. 
Monsieur is an artist, I perceive. We are here 
three artists benighted and without shelter, one 
a woman—a delicate woman—in evening dress 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


—in an interesting situation. This will not fail 
to touch the woman’s heart of Madame, whom 
I perceive indistinctly behind Monsieur her 
husband, and whose face speaks eloquently of 
a well-regulated mind. Ah! Monsieur, Madame 
—one generous movement, and you make three 
people happy! Two or three hours beside your 
fire—I ask it of Monsieur in the name of Art—I 
ask it of Madame by the sanctity of womanhood.” 

The two, as by a tacit consent, drew back from 
the door. 

‘‘Come in,” said the man. 

“ Entrez , Madame,” said the woman. 

The door opened directly upon the kitchen of 
the house, which was to all appearance the only 
sitting-room. The furniture was both plain and 
scanty; but there were one or two landscapes 
on the Avail handsomely framed, as if they had 
already visited the committee-rooms of an ex¬ 
hibition and been thence extruded. Leon 
walked up to the pictures and represented the 
part of connoisseur before each in turn, with his 
usual dramatic insight and force. The master 
of the house, as if irresistibly attracted, followed 
him from canvas to canvas with the lamp. 
Elvira was led directly to the fire, where she pro¬ 
ceeded to warm herself, while Stubbs stood in 
the middle of the floor and followed the pro¬ 
ceedings of Leon with mild astonishment in his 
eyes. 

“You should see them by daylight,” said the 
artist. 


142 


Providence and the Guitar 


“I promise myself that pleasure,” said L6on. 
“You possess, sir, if you will permit me an ob¬ 
servation, the art of composition to a T.” 

“You are very good,” returned the other. 
“But should you not draw nearer to the fire?” 

“With all my heart,” said L£on. 

And the whole party was soon gathered at the 
table over a hasty and not an elegant cold supper, 
washed down with the least of small wines. 
Nobody liked the meal, but nobody complained; 
they put a good face upon it, one and all, and 
made a great clattering of knives and forks. To 
see Leon eating a single cold sausage was to see 
a triumph; by the time he had done he had got 
through as much pantomime as would have suf¬ 
ficed for a baron of beef, and he had the relaxed 
expression of the over-eaten. 

As Elvira had naturally taken a place by the 
side of L6on, and Stubbs as naturally, although 
I believe unconsciously, by the side of Elvira, 
the host and hostess were left together. Yet 
it was to be noted that they never addressed a 
word to each other, nor so much as suffered their 
eyes to meet. The interrupted skirmish still 
survived in ill feeling; and the instant the guests 
departed it would break forth again as bitterly 
as ever. The talk wandered from this to that 
subject—for with one accord the party had de¬ 
clared it was too late to go to bed; but those 
two never relaxed toward each other; Goneril 
and Regan in a sisterly tiff were not more bent 
on enmity. 


M3 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


It chanced that Elvira was so much tired by 
all the little excitements of the night that for 
once she laid aside her company manners, which 
were both easy and correct, and in the most nat¬ 
ural manner in the world leaned her head on 
L6on’s shoulder. At the same time, fatigue sug¬ 
gesting tenderness, she locked the fingers of her 
right hand into those of her husband’s left; and 
half closing her eyes, dozed off into a golden bor¬ 
derland between sleep and waking. But all the 
time she was not aware of what was passing, and 
saw the painter’s wife studying her with looks 
between contempt and envy. 

It occurred to L6on that his constitution de¬ 
manded the use of some tobacco; and he undid 
his fingers from Elvira’s in order to roll a ciga¬ 
rette. It was gently done, and he took care that 
his indulgence should in no other way disturb 
his wife’s position. But it seemed to catch the 
eye of the painter's wife with a special signifi¬ 
cance. She looked straight before her for an 
instant, and then, with a swift and stealthy 
movement, took hold of her husband's hand be¬ 
low the table. Alas! she might have spared 
herself the dexterity. For the poor fellow was 
so overcome by this caress that he stopped with 
his mouth open in the middle of a word, and by 
the expression of his face plainly declared to all 
the company that his thoughts had been diverted 
into softer channels. 

If it had not been rather amiable, it would 
have been absurdly droll. His wife at once 


J44 


Providence and the Guitar 


withdrew her touch; but it was plain she had 
to exert some force. Thereupon the young man 
coloured and looked for a moment beautiful. 

L6on and Elvira both observed the by-play, 
and a shock passed from one to the other; for 
they were inveterate match-makers, especially 
between those who were already married. 

“I beg your pardon," said Leon, suddenly. 
“I see no use in pretending. Before we came 
in here we heard sounds indicating—if I may so 
express myself—an imperfect harmony.” 

“Sir-” began the man. 

But the woman was beforehand. 

“It is quite true,” she said. “I see no cause 
to be ashamed. If my husband is mad I shall 
at least do my utmost to prevent the conse¬ 
quences. Picture to yourself, Monsieur and 
Madame,” she went on, for she passed Stubbs 
over, “that this wretched person—a dauber, an 
incompetent, not fit to be a sign-painter—re¬ 
ceives this morning an admirable offer from an 
uncle—an uncle of my own, my mother’s brother, 
and tenderly beloved—of a clerkship with nearly 
a hundred and fifty pounds a year, and that 
he—picture to yourself!—he refuses it! Why? 
For the sake of Art, he says. Look at his art, 
I say—look at it! Is it fit to be seen ? Ask him— 
is it fit to be sold? And it is for this, Monsieur 
and Madame, that he condemns me to the most 
deplorable existence, without luxuries, without 
comforts, in a vile suburb of a country town. 
O non!" she cried, “ non—je ne me tairai pas — 

i45 



Masterpieces of Fiction 


c'est plus fort que moi! I take these gentlemen 
and this lady for judges—is this kind? is it de¬ 
cent? is it manly? Do I not deserve better at 
his hands after having married him and”—(a 
visible hitch)—‘‘done everything in the world 
to please him.” 

I doubt if there were ever a more embarrassed 
company at a table; every one looked like a 
fool; and the husband like the biggest. 

‘‘The art of Monsieur, however,” said Elvira, 
breaking the silence, ‘‘is not wanting in dis¬ 
tinction.” 

‘‘It has this distinction,” said the wife, “that 
nobody will buy it.” 

“I should have supposed a clerkship-” 

began Stubbs. 

“Art is Art,” swept in Leon. “I salute Art. 
It is the beautiful, the divine; it is the spirit 

of the world, and the pride of life. But-” 

And the actor paused. 

“A clerkship-” began Stubbs. 

“I’ll tell you what it is,” said the painter. 
‘I am an artist, and as this gentleman says, 
Art is this and the other; but of course, if my 
wife is going to make my life a piece of perdition 
all day long, I prefer to go and drown myself out 
of hand.” 

“Go!” said his wife. “I should like to see 
you!” 

“I was going to say,” resumed Stubbs, “that 
a fellow may be a clerk and paint almost as much 
as he likes. I know a fellow in a bank who makes 
146 





Providence and the Guitar 


capital water-colour sketches; he even sold one 
for seven-and-six.” 

To both the women this seemed a plank of 
safety; each hopefully interrogated the coun¬ 
tenance of her lord; even Elvira, an artist her¬ 
self! But, indeed, there must be something 
permanently mercantile in the female nature. 
The two men exchanged a glance; it was tragic; 
not otherwise might two philosophers salute, as 
at the end of a laborious life each recognised that 
he was still a mystery to his disciples. 

L6on arose. 

“Art is Art,” he repeated sadly. “It is not 
water-colour sketches, nor practising on a piano. 
It is a life to be lived.” 

“And in the meantime people starve!” ob¬ 
served the woman of the house. “If that’s a 
life, it is not one for me.” 

“I’ll tell you what,” burst forth Leon; “you, 
Madame, go into another room and talk it over 
with my wife; and I’ll stay here and talk it over 
with your husband. It may come to nothing, 
but let’s try.” 

“I am very willing,” replied the young 
woman; and she proceeded to light a candle. 
“This way, if you please.” And she led Elvira 
upstairs into a bedroom. The fact is,” said 
she, sitting down, “that my husband cannot 
paint.” 

“No more can mine act,” replied Elvira. 

“I should have thought he could,” returned 
the other; “he seems clever.” 

i47 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


“He is so, and the best of men besides,” said 
Elvira; “but he cannot act.” 

“At least he is not a sheer humbug, like mine; 
he can at least sing.” 

“You mistake L6on,” returned his wife, 
warmly. “He does not even pretend to sing; 
he has too fine a taste; he does so for a living. 
And, believe me, neither of the men is a humbug. 
They are people with a mission—which they can¬ 
not carry out.” 

“Humbug or not,” replied the other, “you 
came very near passing the night in the fields; 
and, for my part, I live in terror of starvation. 
I should think it was a man’s mission to think 
twice about his wife. But it appears not. 
Nothing is their mission but to play the fool. 
Oh!” she broke out, “is it not something dreary 
to think of that man of mine ? If he could only 
do it, who would care? But no—not he—no 
more than I can!” 

“Have you any children?” asked Elvira. 

“No; but then I may.” 

“Children change so much,” said Elvira, with 
a sigh. 

And just then from the room below there flew 
up a sudden snapping chord on the guitar; one 
followed after another; then the voice of L6on 
joined in; and there was an air being played 
and sung that stopped the speech of the two 
women. The wife of the painter stood like a 
person transfixed; Elvira, looking into her eyes, 
could see all manner of beautiful memories and 
148 


Providence and the Guitar 


kind thoughts that were passing in and out of 
her soul with every note; it was a piece of her 
youth that went before her; a green French 
plain, the smell of apple-flowers, the far and 
shining ringlets of a river, and the words and 
presence of love. 

“L6on has hit the nail,” thought Elvira to 
herself. “I wonder how.” 

The how was plain enough. L6on had asked 
the painter if there were no air connected with 
courtship and pleasant times; and having 
learned what he wished, and allowed an interval 
to pass, he had soared forth into 

“ O mon amante, 

O mon d£sir, 

Sachons cucillir 

L’heure charmante I ” 

‘‘Pardon me, Madame,” said the painter’s 
wife, ‘‘your husband sings admirably well.” 

‘‘He sings that with some feeling,” replied 
Elvira, critically, although she was a little moved 
herself, for the song cut both ways in the upper 
chamber; ‘‘but it is as an actor and not as a 
musician.” 

‘‘Life is very sad,” said the other; ‘‘it so 
wastes away under one’s fingers.” 

‘‘I have not found it so,” replied Elvira. *‘I 
think the good parts of it last and grow greater 
every day.” 

‘‘Frankly, how would you advise me?” 

‘‘Frankly, I would let my husband do what he 
149 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


wished. He is obviously a very loving painter; 
you have not yet tried him as a clerk. And you 
know—if it were only as the possible father of 
your children—it is as well to keep him at his 
best.” 

‘‘He is an excellent fellow,” said the wife. 

They kept it up till sunrise with music and all 
manner of good fellowship; and at sunrise, 
while the sky was still temperate and clear, they 
separated on the threshold with a thousand ex¬ 
cellent wishes for each other’s welfare. Castel- 
le-Gachis was beginning to send up its smoke 
against the golden East; and the church bell 
was ringing six. 

‘‘My guitar is a familiar spirit,” said L£on, as 
he and Elvira took the nearest way toward the 
inn; ‘‘it resuscitated a Commissary, created an 
English tourist, and reconciled a man and wife.” 

Stubbs, on his part, went off into the morn¬ 
ing with reflections of his own. ‘‘They are all 
mad,” thought he; ‘‘all mad—but wonderfully 
decent.” 


RIP VAN WINKLE 


BY 

Washington Irving 

[The following tale was found among the 
papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an 
old gentleman of New York, who was very 
curious in the Dutch history of the province and 
the manners of the descendants from its primitive 
settlers. His historical researches, however, did 
not lie so much among books as among men; for 
the former are lamentably scanty on his favourite 
topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and 
still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore 
so invaluable to true history.] 

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson, 
must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They 
are a dismembered branch of the great Ap¬ 
palachian family, and are seen away to the west 
of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and 
lording it over the surrounding country. Every 
change of season, every change of weather, indeed 
every hour of the day, produces some change 
in the magical hues and shapes of these moun¬ 
tains, and they are regarded by all the good 
wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. 
When the weather is fair and settled, they are 
clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold 
outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, 
iSi 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they 
will gather a hood of gray vapours about their 
summits, which, in the last rays of the setting 
sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the 
voyager may have descried the light smoke 
curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs 
gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints 
of the upland melt away into the fresh green of 
the nearer landscape. It is a little village of 
great antiquity, having been founded by some 
of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the 
province, just about the beginning of the govern¬ 
ment of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest 
in peace!), and there were some of the houses 
of the original settlers standing within a few 
years, built of small yellow bricks brought from 
Holland, having latticed windows and gable 
fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very 
houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was 
sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there 
lived many years since, while the country was 
yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good- 
natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. 
He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who 
figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of 
Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to 
the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, how¬ 
ever, but little of the martial character of his 
ancestors. I have observed that he was a 
simple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, 


152 


Rip Van Winkle 


a kind neighbour, and an obedient, henpecked 
husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance 
might be owing that meekness of spirit which 
gained him such universal popularity; for those 
men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliat¬ 
ing abroad who are under the discipline of 
shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are 
rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace 
of domestic tribulation, and a curtain lecture is 
worth all the sermons in the world for teaching 
the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A 
termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, 
be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so, 
Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great favourite 
among all the good wives of the village, who, 
as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all 
family squabbles; and never failed, whenever 
they talked those matters over in their evening 
gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van 
Winkle. The children of the village, too, would 
shout with joy whenever he approached. He 
assisted at their sports, made their playthings, 
taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and 
told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and 
Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the 
village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, 
hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, 
and playing a thousand tricks on him with 
impunity; and not a dog would bark at him 
throughout the neighbourhood. 

The great error in Rip’s composition was an 

iS3 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable 
labour. It could not be from the want of 
assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a 
wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a 
Tartar’s lance, and fish all day without a mur¬ 
mur, even though he should not be encouraged 
by a single nibble He would carry a fowling- 
piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging 
through woods and swamps, and up hill and 
down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild 
pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a 
neighbour even in the roughest toil, and was a 
foremost man at all country frolics for husking 
Indian com, or building stone fences; the women 
of the village, too, used to employ him to run 
their errands, and to do such little odd jobs 
as their less obliging husbands would not do 
for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend 
to anybody’s business but his own; but as to 
doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, 
he found it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work 
on his farm; it was the most pestilent little piece 
of ground in the whole country; everything 
about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in 
spite of him. His fences were continually 
falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray 
or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to 
grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else; 
the rain always made a point of setting in just 
as he had some outdoor work to do; so that, 
though his patrimonial estate had dwindled 


154 


Rip Van Winkle 


away under his management, acre by acre, until 
there was little more left than a mere patch of 
Indian com and potatoes, yet it was the worst 
conditioned farm in the neighbourhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as 
if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an 
urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to 
inherit the habits, with the old clothes, of his 
father. He was generally seen trooping like 
a colt, at his mother’s heels, equipped in a pair of 
his father’s cast-off galligaskins, which he had 
much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine 
lady does her train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those 
happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, 
who take the world easy, eat white bread or 
brown, whichever can be got with least thought 
or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny 
than work for a pound. If left to himself, he 
would have whistled life away, in perfect con¬ 
tentment; but his wife kept continually dinning 
in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and 
the min he was bringing on his family. Morning, 
noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly 
going, and everything he said or did was sure 
to produce a torrent of household eloquence. 
Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures 
of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown 
into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, 
shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. 
This, however, always provoked a fresh volley 
from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


forces, and take to the outside of the house—the 
only side which, in truth, belongs to a hen¬ 
pecked husband. 

Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog 
Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his master; 
for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as com¬ 
panions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf 
with an evil eye, as the cause of his master’s 
going so often astray. True it is, in all points 
of spirit befitting an honourable dog, he was as 
courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods 
—but what courage can withstand the ever- 
during and all-besetting terrors of a woman’s 
tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house 
his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground or 
curled between his legs, he sneaked about with 
a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at 
Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a 
broomstick or ladle he would fly to the door 
with yelping precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van 
Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart 
temper never mellows with age, and a sharp 
tongue is the only edge tool that grows keener 
with constant use. For a long while he used 
to console himself, when driven from home, by 
frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the 
sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of 
the village; which held its sessions on a bench 
before a small inn, designated by a rubicund 
portrait of his Majesty George the Third. Here 
they used to sit in the shade, of a long lazy 
156 


Rip Van Winkle 


summer’s day, talk listlessly over village gossip, 
or tell endless, sleepy stories about nothing. 
But it would have been worth any statesman’s 
money to have heard the profound discussions 
that sometimes took place, when by chance an 
old newspaper fell into their hands, from some 
passing traveller. How solemnly they would 
listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick 
Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper 
learned little man, who was not to be daunted 
by the most gigantic word in the dictionary! 
And how sagely they would deliberate upon 
public events some months after they had taken 
place! 

The opinions of this junto were completely 
controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the 
village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of 
which he took his seat from morning till night, 
just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and 
keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the 
neighbours could tell the hour by his movements 
as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he 
was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe 
incessantly. His adherents, however (for every 
great man has his adherents), perfectly under¬ 
stood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. 
When anything that was read or related dis¬ 
pleased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe 
vehemently, and send forth short, frequent, and 
angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale 
the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in 
light and placid clouds, and sometimes, taking 

157 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant 
vapour curl about his nose, would gravely nod 
his head in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip 
was at length routed by his termagant wife, who 
would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity 
of the assemblage and call the members all to 
naught. Nor was that august personage, Nicho¬ 
las Vedder himself, sacred from the daring 
tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him 
outright with encouraging her husband in habits 
of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to de¬ 
spair, and his only alternative to escape from the 
labour of the farm and the clamour of his wife 
was to take gun in hand and stroll away into 
the woods. Here he would sometimes seat him¬ 
self at the foot of a tree, and share the contents 
of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sym¬ 
pathised as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. 
“Poor Wolf,” he would say, “thy mistress leads 
thee a dog’s life of it; but never mind, my 
lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend 
to stand by thee!” Wolf would wag his tail, 
look wistfully in his master’s face, and if dogs 
can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated 
the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal 
day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of 
the highest parts of the Kaatskill mountains. 
He was after his favourite sport of squirrel¬ 
shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and 
158 


Rip Van Winkle 


reechoed with the reports of his gun. Panting 
and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the after¬ 
noon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain 
herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. 
From an opening between the trees he could 
overlook all the lower country for many a mile 
of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the 
lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on 
its silent but majestic course, with the reflection 
of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, 
here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and 
at last losing itself in the blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep 
mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the 
bottom filled with fragments from the impending 
cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected 
rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip 
lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually 
advancing; the mountains began to throw their 
long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw 
that it would be dark long before he could reach 
the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he 
thought of encountering the terrors of Dame 
Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice 
from a distance, hallooing, “Rip Van Winkle! 
Rip Van Winkle!” He looked around, but 
could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary 
flight across the mountain. He thought his 
fancy must have deceived him, and turned again 
to descend, when he heard the same cry ring 
through the still evening air: “Rip Van Winkle! 

159 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Rip Van Winkle!” At the same time Wolf 
bristled up his back and, giving a low growl, 
skulked to his master’s side, looking fearfully 
down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague 
apprehension stealing over him; he looked 
anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a 
strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and 
bending under the weight of something he 
carried on his back. He was surprised to see any 
human being in this lonely and unfrequented 
place, but supposing it to be some one of the 
neighbourhood in need of his assistance, he 
hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach, he was still more surprised 
at the singularity of the stranger’s appearance. 
He was a short, square-built old fellow, with 
thick, bushy hair and a grizzled beard. His 
dress was of the antique Dutch fashion: a cloth 
jerkin strapped round the waist, several pairs 
of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, 
decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, 
and bunches at the knees. He bore on his 
shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, 
and made signs for Rip to approach and assist 
him with the load. Though rather shy and 
distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip com¬ 
plied with his usual alacrity, and mutually 
relieving each other, they clambered up a nar¬ 
row gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain 
torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and 
then heard long, rolling peals, like distant 
thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep 
i6q 


Rip Van Winkle 


ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, 
toward which their rugged path conducted. 
He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be 
the muttering of one of those transient thunder 
showers which often take place in mountain 
heights, he proceeded. Passing through the 
ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small 
amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular 
precipices over the brinks of which impending 
trees shot their branches, so that you onty 
caught glimpses of the azure sky, and the bright 
evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and 
his companion had laboured on in silence; for 
though the former marvelled greatly what could 
be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this 
wild mountain, yet there was something strange 
and incomprehensible about the unknown, that 
inspired awe and checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects 
of wonder presented themselves. On a level 
spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking 
personages playing at nine-pins. They were 
dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion: some 
wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long 
knives in their belts, and most of them had 
enormous breeches, of similar style with that 
of the guide’s. Their visages, too, were peculiar, 
one had a large head, broad face, and small, pig¬ 
gish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist 
entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white 
sugarloaf hat set off with a little red cock’s tail. 
They all had beards, of various shapes and 
161 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


colours. There was one who seemed to be the 
commander. He was a stout old gentleman, 
with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore 
a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high- 
crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and 
high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The 
whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an 
old Flemish painting, in the parlour of Dominie 
Van Shaick, the village parson, and which had 
been brought over from Holland at the time of 
the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, 
that though these folks were evidently amusing 
themselves, yet they maintained the gravest 
faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, 
withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure 
he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted 
the stillness of the scene but the noise of the 
balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed 
along the mountains like rumbling peals of 
thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, 
they suddenly desisted from their play, and 
stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, 
and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre counte¬ 
nances, that his heart turned within him and 
his knees smote together. His companion now 
emptied the contents of the keg into large 
flagons and made signs to him to wait upon the 
company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; 
they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and 
then returned to their game. 

162 


Rip Van Winkle 


By degrees Rip’s awe and apprehension 
subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was 
fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he 
found had much of the flavour of excellent 
Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and 
was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One 
taste provoked another, and he repeated his 
visits to the flagon so often, that at length his 
senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his 
head, his head gradually declined, and he foil 
into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green 
knoll wherefrom he had first seen the old man 
of the glen. He rubbed his eyes. It was a 
bright, sunny morning; the birds were hopping 
and twittering among the bushes, and an eagle 
was wheeling aloft, breasting the pure mountain 
breeze. “Surely,” thought Rip, “I have not 
slept here all night.” He recalled the occurrences 
before he fell asleep. The strange man with a 
keg of liquor—the mountain ravine—the wild 
retreat among the rocks—the woe-begone party 
at nine-pins—the flagon—“Oh! that flagon! 
that wicked flagon! ’’ thought Rip. ‘‘What excuse 
shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?” 

He looked around for his gun, but in place of 
the clean, well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an 
old firelock lying by him, the barrel encrusted 
with rust, and lock falling off, and the stock 
worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave 
roysterers of the mountain had put a trick upon 
him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had 
163 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disap¬ 
peared, but he might have strayed away after 
a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him 
and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes 
repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was 
to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last 
evening’s gambol, and if he met with any of the 
party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose 
to walk he found himself stiff in the joints, and 
wanting in his usual activity. “These mountain 
beds do not agree with me,” thought Rip, “and 
if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the 
rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with 
Dame Van Winkle.” With some difficulty he 
got down into the glen. He found the gully 
up which he and his companion had ascended the 
preceding evening, but to his astonishment a 
mountain stream was now foaming down it, 
leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen 
with babbling murmurs. He, however, made 
shift to scramble up its sides, working his toil¬ 
some way through thickets of birch, sassafras, 
and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or 
entangled by the wild grape-vines that twisted 
their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and 
spread a kind of network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had 
opened through the cliffs, to the amphitheatre; 
but no traces of such opening remained. The 
rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall, over 
which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of 
164 


Rip Van Winkle 


feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, 
black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. 
Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. 
He again called and whistled after his dog; he 
was only answered by the cawing of a flock of 
idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree 
that overhung a sunny precipice, and which, 
secure in their elevation, seemed to look down 
and scoff at the poor man’s perplexities. What 
was to be done? The morning was passing 
away, and Rip felt famished for want of his 
breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and 
gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would 
not do to starve among the mountains. He 
shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, 
and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, 
turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village he met a number 
of people, but none whom he knew, which 
somewhat surprised him, for he had thought 
himself acquainted with every one in the country 
round. Their dress, too, was of a different 
fashion from that to which he was accustomed. 
They all stared at him with equal marks of 
surprise, and whenever they cast eyes upon him, 
invariably stroked their chins. The constant 
recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, in¬ 
voluntarily, to do the same, when, to his aston¬ 
ishment, he found his beard had grown a foot 
long! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. 
A troop of strange children ran at his heels, 

i6 5 


Masterpieces of Fiction 

hooting after him, and pointing at his gray 
beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he 
recognised for an old acquaintance, barked at 
him as he passed. The very village was altered: 
it was larger and more populous. There were 
rows of houses which he had never seen before, 
and those which had been his familiar haunts 
had disappeared. Strange names were over the 
doors—strange faces at the windows—every¬ 
thing was strange. His mind now misgave him; 
he began to doubt whether both he and the 
world around him were not bewitched. Surely 
this was his native village, which he had left 
but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill 
mountains—there ran the silver Hudson at a 
distance—there was every hill and dale precisely 
as it had always been. Rip was sorely per¬ 
plexed. “That flagon last night,” thought he, 
“has addled my poor head sadly!” 

It was with some difficulty that he found the 
way to his own house, which he approached with 
silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the 
shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the 
house gone to decay—the roof fallen in, the 
windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. 
A half-starved dog, that looked like Wolf, was 
skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but 
the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. 
This was an unkind cut indeed. ‘‘My very 
dog,” sighed poor Rip, “has forgotten me!” 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, 
Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. 

166 


Rip Van Winkle 


It was empty, forlorn, and apparently aban¬ 
doned. This desolateness overcame all his 
connubial fears. He called loudly for his wife 
and children; the lonely chambers rang for a 
moment with his voice, and then all again was 
silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his 
old resort, the village inn—but it too was gone. 
A large rickety wooden building stood in its 
place, with great gaping windows, some of them 
broken, and mended with old hats and petticoats, 
and over the door was painted, “The Union 
Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle.” Instead of the 
great tree that used to shelter the quiet little 
Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall 
naked pole, with something on the top that 
looked like a red night-cap, and from it was 
fluttering a flag, on which was a singular as¬ 
semblage of stars and stripes. All this was 
strange and incomprehensible. He recognised 
on the sign, however, the ruby face of King 
George, under which he had smoked so many a 
peaceful pipe, but even this was singularly 
metamorphosed. The red coat was changed 
for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the 
hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated 
with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted 
in large characters, General Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the 
door, but none that Rip recollected. The very 
character of the people seemed changed. There 
was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about 

v i 6 7 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy 
tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage 
Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double 
chin, and fair, long pipe, uttering clouds of 
tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van 
Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the 
contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of 
these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his 
pockets full of handbills, was haranguing 
vehemently about rights of citizens—election— 
members of Congress—liberty—Bunker’s Hill— 
heroes of seventy-six—and other words that were 
a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered 
Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled 
beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, 
and the army of women and children that had 
gathered at his heels, soon attracted the attention 
of the tavern politicians. They crowded round 
him, eyeing him from head to foot, with great 
curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and 
drawing him partly aside, inquired “on which 
side he voted.” Rip stared in vacant stupidity. 
Another short but busy little fellow pulled him 
by the arm, and rising on tip-toe, inquired in 
his ear “whether he was Federal or Democrat.” 
Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the 
question, when a knowing, self-important old 
gentleman in a sharp cocked hat made his way 
through the crowd, putting them to the right 
and left with his elbows as he passed, and plant¬ 
ing himself before Van Winkle, with one arm 
168 


Rip Van Winkle 


akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen 
eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into 
his very soul, demanded, in an austere tone, 
“what brought him to the election with a gun 
on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and 
whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?" 
“Alas! gentlemen,” cried Rip, somewhat dis¬ 
mayed, “I am a poor, quiet man, a native of 
the place, and a loyal subject of the King, God 
bless him!” 

Here a general shout burst from the by¬ 
standers: “A tory! A tory! A spy! A refu¬ 
gee! Hustle him! Away with him!” It was 
with great difficulty that the self-important 
man in the cocked hat restored order, and, 
having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, he 
demanded again of the unknown culprit what he 
came there for, and whom he was seeking. The 
poor man humbly assured him that he meant no 
harm, but merely came there in search of some 
of his neighbours, who used to keep about the 
tavern. 

“Well—who are they? Name them.” 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
“Where’s Nicholas Vedder?” 

There was silence for a little while, when an 
old man replied, in a thin piping voice: “Nicholas 
Vedder? why, he is dead and gone these eighteen 
years! There was a wooden tombstone in the 
church-yard that used to tell all about him, but 
that’s rotted and gone too.” 

“Where’s Brom Dutcher?” 

169 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


“Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning 
of the war. Some say he was killed at the 
storming of Stony Point, others say he was 
drowned in a squall at the foot of Anthony’s 
Nose. I don’t know—he never came back 
again.” 

“Where’s Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?” 

“He went off to the wars too, was a great 
militia general, and is now in Congress.” 

Rip’s heart died away at hearing of these sad 
changes in his home and friends, and finding 
himself thus alone in the world. Every answer 
puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous 
lapses of time, and of matters which he could 
not understand: war—Congress—Stony Point. 
He had no courage to ask after any more friends, 
but cried out in despair, “Does nobody here 
know Rip Van Winkle?” 

“Oh, Rip Van Winkle!” exclaimed two or 
three. “Oh, to be sure! that’s Rip Van Winkle 
yonder, leaning against the tree.” 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart 
of himself as he went up the mountain: ap¬ 
parently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The 
poor fellow was now completely confounded. 
He doubted his own identity, and whether he 
was himself or another man. In the midst of 
his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat 
demanded who he was, and what was his name? 

“God knows,” exclaimed he, at his wit’s end; 
“I’m not myself—I’m somebody else—that’s 
me yonder—no—that’s somebody else, got into 
170 


Rip Van Winkle 


my shoes—I was myself last night, but I fell 
asleep on the mountain, and they’ve changed 
my gun, and everything’s changed, and I’m 
changed, and I can’t tell what’s my name, or 
who I am! ’ ’ 

The bystanders began now to look at each 
other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their 
fingers against their foreheads. There was a 
whisper, also, about securing the gun, and 
keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at 
the very suggestion of which the self-important 
man in the cocked hat retired with some pre¬ 
cipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, 
likely looking woman pressed through the throng 
to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She 
had a chubby child in her arms, which, fright¬ 
ened at his looks, began to cry. “Hush, Rip,” 
cried she, “hush, you little fool, the old man 
won’t hurt you.” The name of the child, 
the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all 
awakened a train of recollection in his mind. 
“What is your name, my good woman?” 
asked he. 

“Judith Gardenier.” 

“And your father’s name?” 

“Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van 
Winkle; it’s twenty years since he went away 
from home with his gun, and never has been 
heard of since. His dog came home without 
him, but whether he shot himself, or was carried 
away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was 
then but a little girl.” 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Rip had but one question more to ask; but 
he put it with a faltering voice: 

“Where’s your mother?” 

Oh, she too had died but a short time since; 
she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a 
New England pedlar. 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this 
intelligence. The honest man could contain 
himself no longer. He caught his daughter and 
her child in his arms. “I am your father!” 
cried he; “young Rip Van Winkle once—old 
Rip Van Winkle now! Does nobody know poor 
Rip Van Winkle?” 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, totter¬ 
ing out from among the crowd, put her hand to 
her brow, and peering under it in his face for a 
moment, exclaimed, “Sure enough! it is Rip 
Van Winkle—it is himself! Welcome home 
again, old neighbour. Why, where have you 
been these twenty long years?” 

Rip’s story was soon told, for the whole 
twenty years had been to him as one night. 
The neighbours stared when they heard it; 
some were seen to wink at each other, and put 
their tongues in their cheeks. And the self- 
important man in the cocked hat, who, when the 
alarm was over, had returned to the field, 
screwed down the comers of his mouth, and 
shook his head—upon which there was a general 
shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the 
opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen 


172 


Rip Van Winkle 


slowly advancing up the road. He was a 
descendant of the historian of that name, who 
wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. 
Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the 
village, and well versed in all the wonderful 
events and traditions of the neighbourhood. 
He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his 
story in the most satisfactory manner. He 
assured the company that it was a fact, handed 
down from his ancestor the historian, that the 
Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted 
by strange beings. That it was affirmed that 
the great Hendrik Hudson, the first discoverer 
of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil 
there every twenty years, with his crew of the 
Half-moon, being permitted in this way to 
revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep 
a guardian eye upon the river, and the great 
city called by his name. That his father had 
once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing 
at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain ; and 
that he himself had heard, one summer after¬ 
noon, the sound of their balls like distant peals 
of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company 
broke up, and returned to the more important 
concerns of the election. Rip’s daughter took 
him home to live with her: she had a snug, well- 
furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for 
a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of 
the urchins that used to climb upon his back. 
As to Rip’s son and heir, who was the ditto of 

*73 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was 
employed to work on the farm, but evinced an 
hereditary disposition to attend to anything else 
but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits: 
he soon found many of his former cronies, 
though all rather the worse for the wear and tear 
of time, and preferred making friends among 
the rising generation, with whom he soon grew 
into great favour. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being 
arrived at that happy age when a man can do 
nothing with impunity, he took his place once 
more on the bench, at the inn door, and was 
reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, 
and a chronicle of the old times “before the war.” 
It was some time before he could get into the 
regular track of gossip, or could be made to 
comprehend the strange events that had taken 
place during his torpor. How that there had 
been a revolutionary war—that the country had 
thrown off the yoke of old England—and that, 
instead of being a subject of his Majesty George 
the Third, he was now a free citizen of the 
United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; 
the changes of states and empires made but 
little impression on him. But there was one 
species of despotism under which he had long 
groaned, and that was—petticoat government. 
Happily, that was at an end; he had got his neck 
out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in 
and out whenever he pleased, without dreading 
174 


Rip Van Winkle 


the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever 
her name was mentioned, however, he shook his 
head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his 
eyes, which might pass either for an expression 
of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger 
that arrived at Mr. Doolittle’s hotel. He was 
observed, at first, to vary on some points every 
time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing 
to his having so recently awaked. It at last 
settled down precisely to the tale I have related, 
and not a man, woman, or child in the neighbour¬ 
hood but knew it by heart. Some always pre¬ 
tended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted 
that Rip had been out of his head, and that this 
was one point on which he always remained 
flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, 
almost universally gave it full credit. Even to 
this day they never hear a thunder-storm of a 
summer afternoon, about the Kaatskill, but they 
say Hendrik Hudson and his crew are at their 
game of nine-pins. And it is a common wish 
of all henpecked husbands in the neighbourhood, 
when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they 
might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van 
Winkle’s flagon. 

[The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had 
been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little 
German superstition about the Emperor Fred¬ 
erick der Rothbart, and the Kypphauser moun¬ 
tain. The subjoined note, however, which he 
had appended to the tale, shows that it is an 
absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity: 

175 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


“The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem 
incredible to many, but nevertheless I give it 
my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old 
Dutch settlements to have been very subject to 
marvellous events and appearances. Indeed, I 
have heard many stranger stories than this, in 
the villages along the Hudson, all of which 
were too well authenticated to admit of a 
doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van 
Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a 
very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational 
and consistent on every other point, that I think 
no conscientious person could refuse to take this 
into the bargain. Nay, I have seen a certificate 
on the subject taken before a country justice, 
and signed with a cross, in the justice's own 
handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond 
the possibility of doubt.—D. K.”] 


* #81 4 


176 
























* 












* a, 

*- O a 


7 

O 


















s 








.A o , 



f\v* 



.^ * t? • >•-., SOf * ss? ^ ~L 3.-:' * << i %i 



















































\\ x c 0 N c « . 



















oS ^ 



' * * s n ' 

\ 0 ‘ 












